


Strays

by OchibaKonpeki



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Enthusiastic Consent, Fluffy, I didn’t lie about the plot but the plot is over now, I promise there is a plot, M/M, Memory Loss, Pancakes, Redemption, Strangers to Lovers, Wade is a responsible and attentive lover, im just writing about them getting to know each other in their new context
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 04:57:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 43,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16654672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OchibaKonpeki/pseuds/OchibaKonpeki
Summary: Wade finds Spider-Man unconscious on a roof top. Score!Or: Spider-Man has lost his memories, some of his vocabulary, and all of his social conditioning. Wade is losing his mind.





	1. Spider Interrupted

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever fanfic for marvel. I know it’s bad you don’t need to tell me.

Wade is man enough to admit to some light stalking. 

It isn’t like he follows Spider-Man home and watches him sleep. He respects the other man’s desire to keep his secret identity secret and has resisted all temptation to shadow him back to wherever he’s spun his web and touch himself as the hero takes off his mask and peels off that gorgeously well-fitted suit. Even if Wade does wake once or twice a month, panting and covered in sweat, from that exact dream. 

But that doesn’t mean Wade can’t keep an eye on him otherwise. Following #spiderspotting on Twitter is not a crime. Neither is coincidentally needing to attend to something near where someone has spotted a spider. Following Spider-Man once he’s found him probably is a crime, but Wade isn’t very concerned by this on account of already being a criminal. He’s not a total pervert, though; he frequently makes contact with Spider-Man while the young man is patrolling, as much to feel less like a stalker as to bask in being the recipient of anything his sweetheart says.

Even if “anything” includes _I’m working, Deadpool_ and _Go away, I’m busy_ and _don’t look at me like that._

Eventually, Spider-Man had mostly even come to tolerate Wade. They occasionally patrolled together, only Wade really speaking. And Wade could watch him close up in action. He could see spandex over lithe muscle glorifying a body so graceful and flexible as to make the lovechild of an acrobat and a contortionist cry in envy. On very, very rare occasions, they even had real conversations. Spider-Man likes rainy weather, Pokemon Go, and fantasy novels. He has trouble making friends in his daytime life. He’s in college. He’s always tired—he claims he works in addition to school and patrolling. He’s a deadly fighter, but doesn’t believe in killing. He can jump six feet straight up in the air without even trying. He can climb walls. 

These nuggets of information—trivial, yes, but hard won—live close to Wade’s guarded heart. He sometimes repeats them like a mantra, scenes flashing before his mind’s eye— _Spider-Man yawning under his mask, catching Spider-Man on his phone spinning pokestops, Spider-Man saying “I don’t know, I like it” when Wade comments on the downpour ruining the day, Spider-Man leaping backwards onto a ledge to avoid a hug Wade had aimed at him_ —and Wade could pretend that they were friends. Maybe they would have been, he reflects, if Wade wasn’t so crude, flirtatious, inappropriate (murderous, says a voice in his head), desperate not to let the object of his obsession close enough to reject him for who he was rather that what he seemed to be. 

It helps him keep his jerk-off fantasies of winning Spidey’s heart alive.

That is probably why Wade doesn’t realize anything is wrong at first. It matches up reasonably well with everything he knows about his little Spider.

Spider-Man hangs out on rooftops—check.

Spider-Man is out at night—check.

Spider-Man is always tired—check.

Wade walks up to the sweetly sleeping form tucked away in the corner of the roof of a high-rise he had known Spider-Man favored, feeling relieved. He hasn’t seen his favorite hero in while—two weeks, at least—and he has gotten no twitter notifications about sightings. He had been worried something had happened. He lets himself drink the form of his obsession in at length, exploring with his eyes the muscular formation of the leg, the flat plain of the stomach, the broadening at the chest, the temptingly slender curve of his neck, the hints of high cheekbones beneath the mask. _Like a Greek statue of an ancient twink._

“Hey, Spidey,” he greets when he’s drunk his fill. The form doesn’t move, chest continuing to rise and fall slowly and steadily. Wade’s boot nudges his thigh. “Long night? Don’t tell me you had a hot date, it might break my heart.”

Spider-Man doesn’t move. Wade nudges him again. Nothing. 

Wade crouches down and repeats his name, much louder, in his ear. There is no response. Panic rising in his stomach, Wade grasps the small form by the shoulders and _shakes._  

The hero is limp and unresponsive. But, Wade notes, worry and pragmatism warring with each other, his breathing is fine and so is his pulse. Wade feels along his skull under his suit, noticing that the material seems much looser and softer than usual. He finds no bumps and feels no squelches of blood. Somewhat reassured, Wade sits back on his heels, contemplating the unconscious body of his obsession. Nothing to do but wait, he thinks, and sits down on the rooftop. 

He glances around, listening to the sound of the bustling city below and the pleasantly cool summer night breeze about them. It’s far from the top of Wade’s list of strangest social encounters, but he still feels like a bit of an intruder as he keeps watch over his wish-he-was-my friend/patrol partner. He knows instinctively that the hero would want to be alone when he woke up. Wade is antsy, desperate to get an explanation from Spider-Man, vaguely nervous he’ll be blamed for his current condition, and more than anything, bored.

Luckily for Wade and his inability to sit still, however, Spider-Man isn’t long in waking, and the gradual changes as he approaches consciousness are enough to keep Wade occupied. He shifts, moans in his sleep, turns his head. Finally, he stills and Wade can feel that he has awoken. Very, very slowly, the spider pushes himself up on one hand, head turning slowly from one side to the other, where he catches sight of Wade.

“Where am I?”

The question is reasonable but the voice puts Wade on edge. _That isn’t Spider-Man_ he thinks instantly, but in the next instant, he realizes that yes, that is Spider-Man’s voice, just a little less deep, less forceful, and less confident. He sounds like a boy. Shy. 

“You okay, Spidey?” Wade asks instead of answering him. The form flinches violently.

“Don’t call me that!” he cries, sounding shaken and pushing himself away from Wade with one foot. 

Wade puts up his hands placatingly. “Sorry, sorry. I meant, are you okay, Spider-Man?” But Spider-Man doesn’t answer, he just makes a frightened noise and recoils. _Huh. That’s probably bad._

A terrible thought occurs to Wade as he looks down at the small figure. On a hunch, Wade asks with a note of hysteria to his otherwise calm tone, “Do you know who I am?” The big, blank white eyes of the mask seem to fix on his own. The head shakes slowly as the body relaxes, seeming to no longer perceive Wade as a threat.

Wade’s heart is in his throat. “What’s your name?” The form shrugs, unconcerned with this, and arranges himself into a cross-legged position. His hands rise to his face and Wade watches him feel experimentally, confusedly, at the mask. “Okay, then. Do you want me to help you take that off?” Wade’s voice is gentle—he startles himself with it. It’s a voice he usually reserves for his cats and for small children he is rescuing from bad people. Spider-Man nods and Wade shifts himself over to sit in front of the small form, diminished by the lack of heroic bravado he usually displays. “Is there something I can call you, baby?”

Wade’s gloved fingers tighten around the edge of the mask and he pulls, the head within it moving obediently with the shifting pressure. Then Wade sees his face and freezes. _Big, beautiful eyes—so blue—the most perfect eyelashes I’ve ever seen._ The boy—and Wade can see now that Spider-Man had been a misnomer—stares up at him, eyes wide, wet, shimmering, rimmed with long, dark eyelashes, so trusting, perfect petal lips parted unselfconsciously. His hair is perfectly tousled, like an actor filming a just-got-out-of-bed-after-a-crazy-night-of-sex scene, and his bone structure is positively angelic. Wade could have stared forever, counting freckles on his cheeks and flecks of green in his eyes, but the boy looks into his soul and says in a voice so innocent and sweet as to be sinful, “You can call me anything you like.” 

And Wade is done in, ruined, finished, wrecked, never-going-to-be-the-same-again, eyes falling shut against the waves of emotion that threaten to change him. “Baby boy,” he whispers. Then he steals himself, opens his eyes and says “Are you hurt?”

And the boy, bless him, the boy tilts his head like a puppy and smiles in the sort of honest way that only children do, and he says, “No, sir.”

Wade is a man of honor. He tells himself this as he shuts his eyes and groans long and low in his throat. _Get through the other things you need to know first, Wilson._  And to Wade’s horror/delight, each question he asks is met with confusion, foggy avoidance, or a casual shrug. _I don’t think I have a house. Family..? I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know._

That means there is only one place for the boy to go. Wade stands and tilts his masked head to the sky, saying a prayer of thanks to the stars, then looks back down at the sweetly confused boy trying to figure out why he’s wearing gloves and says “Baby boy, do you want to come home with me?”

The boy looks up at him, squints, and says, “Sure. Do you have a name?” He asks the question in a way that makes Wade think that if he answered no, the boy wouldn’t even blink, like some people had names and some people didn’t. 

But Wade has a name and he’s been itching to hear it on those lips for over a year. He gives his name to the boy like a plea, and when the boy repeats it, it feels like a gift. “Wade. That’s a good one. I can’t stand up. Can you, uh, can I..?” 

With a start, Wade realizes that the boy’s hesitance is not because he’s embarrassed by the weakness or the request. No, it’s more like... “You want me to carry you?” Wade asks probingly.

The boy’s eyes light up. “That’s the word!” 

Wade gathers the tiny form against his broad chest and stands, feeling as though he held a kitten rather than an almost-man of, he guessed, 19 or 20 years of age. The weight is warm and the body slight against his hulking form, and without conscious thought, his shoulders hunch in the manner of a rough man holding an infant for the first time, all need-to-protect without anything to defend against. He grins from within his mask as he heads towards the fire escape, feeling the arms of the boy wrap around his neck. 

He’s always had a soft spot for strays. 


	2. Wilson’s Web

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s still bad. Sorry?

As Wade settles the weak and pliant form of his darkest fantasies and brightest dreams onto his couch, he silently thanks any and every god listening for the fact that he had given in to his whim to start playing house—ah, "acting like an adult"—instead of habitually destroying shitty apartments with neglect and then bouncing on the rent. The condo is small, clean, and cozy—decorated, even, he was so pleased with himself for finding grey and green throw pillows to match the rug—and it is Wade’s, something he thought he was missing, that might make him whole.

Watching the boy curl into the soft sofa and sigh, eyes drifting closed in contentment, Wade knows that the condo only kept him distracted, that this was what he had been after—someone to fall asleep on his couch and make his little condo into a home. And thank fuck it’s nice enough to bring a piece like Spider-Man home to. He’d be ashamed to bring someone so pure and sweet into any of the other hepatitis-filled shitholes he’s lived in for the past few years. 

“Are you hungry?” Wade asks, and it’s still that gentle and unfamiliar voice from before. The boy smiles, eyes remaining shut, and shakes his head no. 

“Can I know stuff about you?” he asks, sweet as apple pie.

Wade sits on the couch, cautious. “Stuff like what?”

The boy shrugs sleepily, and opens one eye. He squints. “Is that your face?” he asks, again sounding like he’d accept a simple yes at face value.

Wade shakes his head, slowly, feeling distant from Deadpool. “It’s not,” he admits. “It’s a mask.”

“Is it comfortable?” Wade shakes his head. “Can you take it off?”

Wade stiffens. “Ah, I don’t think that’s a good idea, baby boy.” His stomach sinks at the thought that he probably wouldn’t want to stay if he saw Wade’s face. The boy frowns, opens both eyes, and in a display of a complete lack of social inhibition, throws himself at Wade.

Wade, knowing that Spider-Man can rip him in half, flinches and prepares for self defense, but the hands pushing past his to get at his mask are weak as newborn kittens. It’s a shock, and Wade is suddenly frightened of hurting the tiny body pressed against his side. He freezes and then the mask is coming off and Wade squeezes his eyes shut, sorry to see his domestic fantasy so soon lost. 

Gentle hands stroke his cheeks. Wade, confused, opens his eyes to meet the adoring gaze of the boy wearing a superhero suit like onesie pajamas. “You are so beautiful,” the boy says, sincerity dripping from every word, voice full of childish awe. “Is that why you wear a mask?

Wade breaks for the second time in under an hour, remembering for a moment another life in which a woman he loved had called him beautiful. He blinks back tears and his voice is husky. “Yeah, baby boy, that’s why. I was saving this face for you.”

It feels true.

...

Eventually, the boy falls asleep on the couch, curled up like a kitten. Wade relieves himself in the bathroom, then finds himself staring into the mirror above the sink at the place where his mottled skin meets red leather. A wave of want washes over him, unfamiliar and new—the desire to put Deadpool away for a while and be just Wade again. He unzips the leather slowly, wondering if he remembers what it was like to be Wade for more than a few hours at a time. He doesn’t want to ever be just Deadpool to his spider. 

He pulls on jeans and a concert hoodie he’d stolen from a drug dealer before his change. It says “SHINEDOWN” in purple lettering. Not a bad band, but not something he’d have bought for himself, though now that he thinks about it, when was the last time he bought clothes because he liked them? As an afterthought, he digs lotion out from under the sink—cranberry cinnamon scented, left by a one-night stand about six months prior in a different apartment—and rubs it into his hands. Maybe if they are at least soft..?

Wade sighs and exits the bathroom, avoiding the mirror, and walks back towards the the living room. He nervously checks the sleeping boy’s pulse, and for a moment his ruined hands rest against the pale, fragile neck of his charge, and he’s taken in by the long eyelashes and the soft brown hair. Suddenly he’s touching the loose brown curls and they are so soft. He shuts his eyes and sees the boy beneath him, gasping, with Wade’s hand around his neck squeezing gently, his pupils dilated and face flushed with arousal—

Wade snatches his hands back as though burned and takes a deep, fortifying breath. The boy hadn’t stirred—though Wade certainly had—and the man tugs the flannel blanket up over the temping neck and turns towards the kitchen, certain that Spidey will wake up hungry, certain that he must keep busy. Wade stares into his fridge, unsure of what to make. What do teenage boys— _hopefully legal teenage boys_ , he prays—like to eat? Pancakes? He could make pancakes. 

The batter takes less than five minutes to whip up, and as the griddle he’s placed on the stove heats up he is paralyzed by indecision while considering what type of pancakes would be appropriate. He has the ingredients for chocolate chip, peanut butter, banana, and lemon poppy—he thinks. He checks his spice cabinet. Yes, he still has enough poppy seeds. But what if Spidey only likes regular, plain pancakes? That would be so disappointing. 

A terrifying thought occurs to Wade. Would Spidey know if he had a food allergy? Visions of Tony Stark breaking down his door after discovering Spider-Man is dead of anaphylactic shock fill his head and he shivers. No peanut butter, then. He decides on banana—classic—and starts slicing up a fresh banana. Soon, he has batter on on the griddle, and he places several slices of brown-sugar-covered banana in the raw side before he flips them, praying they will caramelize like they did last time. He doesn’t want to flip them prematurely to check, but judging by the smell, they would.

He heats up maple syrup as well—authentic maple syrup, of course, not that vaguely racist American sugar water—and hears stirring in the other room. Wade smiles, thinking the smell must have woken his guest, and calls out, “Stay there, baby boy, this is almost done. I’ll bring it to you.”

A plaintive _yes, sir_  answers him and Spidey obediently doesn’t appear in the entryway to the kitchen. Experimentally, Wade flips a golden-brown pancake onto a ceramic plate and is very satisfied by the golden crust of caramelized sugar and banana that adorns the tops of his creations. Wade checks the time—6pm—he can send the boy to bed after he eats. He carefully stacks two more pancakes atop the first and turns off the griddle, removing the extra pancakes to a paper towel on the counter. He’d eat them cold later. He pours a liberal amount of maple syrup onto the plate, grabs a fork, and heads into the living room. 

There the boy is, still sitting around in his costume, sleepily rubbing his eyes and squinting around the room. He breaks into a breathtaking smile when Wade walks in, making his heart stutter, and when Wade sets the pancakes in his lap, he cries out with joy and claps his hands together once in enthusiasm. “I love—” he pauses, eyebrows pinching together, but continues undeterred, “Uhh, those!” He gestures at the plate.

Wade blinks, looking between Spidey’s beaming face and the plate. “Pancakes?”

Spidey nods. “Yes, pancakes,” he says, accepting the fork from Wade’s outstretched hand. 

Wade worries his lower lip as the boy digs in, moaning with delight at the taste and, likely, the satiation of hunger—he probably hasn’t eaten in several hours, and Wade knows he has a voracious appetite. “Can I feel your head?” Wade bursts out, immediately wincing at how awkward that question was, and opens his mouth to explain that he wanted to check that Spidey didn’t just have a concussion considering he was forgetting words as well, but the boy simply nods and mumbles _yeah_ around a mouthful of pancake.

Permission granted, Wade shuts his mouth and walks around the back of the couch, digging his fingers into the boy’s hair— _he smells like citrus_ —feeling around for lumps. He finds nothing, and the boy is still munching away. Probingly, he asks, “How are you feeling?” _Good._  “Are you dizzy, nauseous?” _No._ “Tired?” _No, sir._  

Then the boy twists in his seat, swallowing a piece of pancake and asking sweetly, with genuine concern in his eyes, “How are you, Wade?” 

_Wrapped_ , he thinks. _I’m absolutely wrapped, on your leash forever._ But out loud, he only whispers faintly, “I’m good, baby boy.” He watches the boy’s lips move, taken by their delicacy, their pink-bordering-on-red, freshly kissed coloration, and realizes he’s been asked a question. “Yeah, I made them. Do you like them?” he answers, smiling, gesturing at the plate.

The boy nods vigorously and pats the couch next to him. It cannot be taken as anything other than an invitation for Wade to sit with him, so he does, just close enough that he can feel the other’s body heat, but not touching, and watches with delight as Spidey absolutely demolishes the pancakes. “Do you want more?” he asks, laughter in his tone, but the boy just hands him the plate, nodding enthusiastically. 

When Wade returns with another helping of pancakes, he is tempted to retake his seat next to the boy, but he sees the hero suit and realizes that he will need something else to wear. “I’m going to get you some PJs,” he says as he hands Spidey the plate. “They’ll be big, but I’ll pick something comfy out for you. Okay?”

Wade walks down the hallway with _Thank you, sir_  echoing in his ears, aroused physically and emotionally, and is prompted by the feelings it evokes to tear through his dresser, searching for the absolute softest clothing he owns. This turns out to be an old pair of pajama pants—green, with faded Marios riding on faded Yoshis printed onto it—and a black shirt washed so much it had greyed and turned thin. Both were going to be enormous on the boy. Wade wore size larges in pants and extra larges for shirts to accommodate his excessively muscular physique; he’d be surprised if the boy could fill out a medium. Spidey would need clothes, he realizes—maybe Wade could get him some tomorrow. 

By the time Wade returns, the plate is once again empty and Spidey looks like he’s nearly asleep. “I got you some clothes,” Wade says. The boy nods and stands, hands going to his waist to scrabble at the cloth there, and pauses.

Wade, who had been about to leave to give the boy privacy, realizes all at once that the boy doesn’t know how to take off the suit. He shuts his eyes, clenches his teeth, and takes a deep breath. His voice is shaky but casual as he speaks. “Need help?”

Spidey looks at him like he’s offered to pay off his student loan debt instead of help him take off his clothes. “Yes, please,” he says, and stands still, looking at Wade expectantly. 

Wade consciously tries not to act as predatory as he feels as he approaches the boy, rounding to his back and finding the zipper easily. Wade’s hands shake as he grips the metal, noticing with a cold feeling of impending doom the Stark Industries logo on it. The material—slinky, lightweight, obviously high-tech—opens and slides off the boy’s shoulders, revealing a lithe back and an expense of delight, pale skin, unmarred by imperfections other than sweet light freckles that Wade wants to trace constellations out of with his tongue.

“Bad Deadpool,” he admonishes himself under his breath, and the boy turns to ask him what he had said, showing off his beautiful, powerful body, all flawless skin and lithe muscles, a thin trail of hair leading down to where the suit bunched around his hips. Wade’s mouth is dry, the boy’s question unheard as the sweet little hands start to push the fabric down, revealing more of that sweet trail of hair—

Wade averts his eyes and hears the fabric hit the floor. He holds out the clothing, eyes fixed on the corner of the room, and feels it taken from his hands. And then, dear Christ, and then the boy’s arms wrap around his middle and the boy’s face is against his sternum whispering _thank you, Wade._

Wade laughs stiffly and pats the naked boy on the back. “Yeah, sure, baby boy. Get dressed, huh?” And he knows within himself that he would do anything to protect the precious boy in his arms, from everything, up to and including himself. Then he's walking down the hallway, emotionally wanton and physically wound tight like a spring, unable to remember separating himself from the temptations in his living room. Wade Wilson is many things—Deadpool many additional things—but a rapist is not one of them. _Yet, anyway._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be clear, there will be nothing non-consensual going on in this fic.


	3. The Divine Spidey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter before plot shift.

Wade finds himself in the bathroom again, painfully hard, fists clenched. He counts backwards from 50 and goes well into the negatives before he feels collected enough to return to his charge in the other room. He adjusts himself, hissing at the contact on his neglected sex, and sets his jaw as he leaves to confront the next set of challenges the boy will present him.

He pauses before he re-enters the living room, nearly calling out to make sure Spidey is dressed, but he’s almost certain he’d had more than enough time to pull on some pajamas, so he rounds the corner. He blinks. The boy isn’t there anymore. He pushes down fledgling panic and crosses the room in a few long, aggressive strides, entering the kitchen at a less-than-casual speed. He relaxes as he sees Spidey, crouched on the floor by the food and water dish, examining them closely. 

“Hey, baby boy,” he greets. “Find something interesting?”

The boy looks up at him and Jesus Christ on a cracker he is pouting. “These are for those things,” he explains, looking at Wade expectantly. When Wade doesn’t answer him, he pushes on with some impatience, “You don’t have one of them, though?”

Wade struggles to follow the boy’s line of reasoning. “Are you... are you asking me about my cat?” he asks uncertainly. 

The boy frowns in concentration, seeming frustrated. “What’s another word for cat except it’s not a cat?”

Wade is beginning to wonder whether Spidey ought to go to the hospital. “Feline?” he hazards. “Kitten? Dog? Uh, pet?”

At the last suggestion, the boy’s face lights up. “Yes!” he says, pointing with delight at Wade. He stands up, and Wade looks over him once, taking in the way the shirt fit him like a dress, the way the pant legs pool around his ankles, the way the wide neck exposes his collar bones, the way he is _wearing Wade’s clothes_ —then forces himself to listen to the boy’s words. “Yes, a pet. I’ve always wanted a pet.”

Wade smiles at the boy’s heartbroken expression. “You’ve never had a pet?” But of course, the only answer the boy has for that is _I don’t know_  and Wade changes the subject. “Well, I have a cat. Her name is Cricket, she hides under the bed when I have guests. I could go get her and let you hold her?”

The boy nods enthusiastically. “Oh, yes, please!” he says, and in Wade’s mind he hears the words repeated in a moan— _oh, yes, please, Wade!_ —and he sets off to pull his spoiled cat out from under his bed before he can think any more about that particular conjuring of his filthy mind. Cricket is more or less amenable to coming out from under the bed, understanding that she is just as safe—if not safer—in Wade’s arms as she is under the bed, behind the extra blankets. He pets her back and scritches her ears as he walks back towards the kitchen, where he finds Spidey sitting on the counter, kicking his legs a little in excitement, his bare feet hidden by the pants that hang several inches past his toes. 

Wade mumbles _be good_ to Cricket, who looks balefully at him from Spidey’s arms, but soon the sweet thing is purring under all the attention she’s getting from the boy. _Such an attention whore_ , he thinks to himself, grinning. She is a beautiful cat—Wade had been positively taken by her from the moment he had found her, shivering and starving in a dumpster. He had thought she was grey and shorthaired, but a bath and good nutrition had proven her to be a white longhair. She is missing the very tip of her right ear—an invisible defect unless you feel for it in her ear-fluff—and her tail had been broken, causing it to stick out awkwardly to the side about halfway to the tip. Wade has always felt that it makes her look distinguished. 

“I love her,” Spidey declares, looking down at Cricket with obvious affection. Wade suddenly feels a tinge of jealousy but pushes it aside, grateful his old roommate and his new one are getting on.

“It looks like she loves you, too, baby boy. She’ll probably sleep with you tonight, she always sleeps in the bed, even when I’m not here.” 

The boy looks up at him with wonder in his eyes. “I get to sleep here?” he demands. Bemused, Wade nods. “With you?” The tone contains affection, gratitude, even longing—for Wade? 

Wade stutters for the first time in his adult life. “Y-yeah, baby boy. You—you can stay as long as you want, eh?”

Spidey carefully shifts Cricket onto one arm and holds the other out to Wade, palm up. Wade hesitates, but places his cinnamon-cranberry scented Halloween prop of a hand on the boy’s perfect palm, seeing the delicate fingers close over it as though through a wall of water. “Thank you, Wade.”

...

Not long later, Wade is having an argument that he never thought in a million years he’d ever have.

“Baby boy,” he groans into his hands, physically pained by the words he drags out of his throat. “I can’t sleep in here with you. It’s not appropriate. I don’t even know how old you are.”

Spidey is completely undeterred, hand gripping his tightly—though, Wade notices, with no hint of super-strength—and positively _whines_ , “Waaade, I don’t care. I’m cold and I can’t see, and you make me feel safe.”

Oh. That’s a new revelation. Not the _you make me feel safe_ —Wade would think about that when he had the time and privacy to jerk his cock to it—but the _I can’t see_. The fact was that Spider-Man has the most impressive sense of smell, sight, and hearing he’s ever heard of. “What do you mean, you can’t see?” he demands, finally realizing with a terrible sinking feeling that the boy has been squinting all day. _Bad Deadpool_. How could he not have realized?

"Maybe I should take you to the hospital,” Wade muses aloud. “Or should I just call Stark?”

At that, the boy flinches violently, crying out. “No!” he shrieks, scrabbling backwards across the mattress. Wade watches with a feeling of helplessness as the boy straight up _hides under the covers_. He stops and thinks for a while, revisiting the idea that this may not actually be the Spider-Man he thinks it is. But the build, the voice, _the ass_ , that’s all the same. He wonders if the boy needs medical treatment, but with no pain or nausea, it doesn’t look like a concussion or other head trauma. Maybe his memory was wiped? _What a stupid, overdone_ trope, he thinks, wondering what kind of hack villain is still giving people amnesia in this year of our lord twenty and eighteen.

The ball under the covers is trembling. 

Wade breathes in through his nose. “If I agree to sleep here with you, will you calm down?” he negotiates, resigning himself to a long night of lying next to the love of his life, rock-hard and full of sick fantasies. There is a movement from the lump that Wade takes for a nod, so Wade climbs in—fully dressed, other than his shoes, to help create some kind of semblance of an appropriately maintained boundary. The bed is big enough that they won’t have to touch, he reminds himself as he turns off the light. He should have known better. The moment he lies back, there are little hands wrapped around his bicep, a forehead against his shoulder, cold toes brushing against his own bare (but warm) feet. It’s not exactly cuddling, but it brings pleasure to Wade’s heart, so much so he feels like his chest is leaking tingling warmth into his limbs. 

The boy mumbles _good night, Wade_  into his arm. Wade looks down at his perfect brown curls and echoes him. “Goodnight, baby boy.”


	4. The Strange Case of Peter Parker and Baby Boy

Wade wakes before his charge the next day, having slept little and fitfully in the discomfort of sharing only a bed with someone he wanted to share everything with. He eyes the grip Spidey has on his arm, knowing from experience that the boy was far, far stronger than him. He’s able to remove the boy’s hand with no problems, however. Wade stands and stares at the sleeping figure for a moment, struck by scientific inspiration. _Spidey-sense_. He’s seen it at work—he’s seen the hero tense all once from a threat that had yet to round the corner, seen him catch a knife thrown at his head without looking at it, seen him dodge a bullet. And Wade has never been able to sneak up on him.

Tentatively, and with guilt high in his throat, he pulls one of his extra katanas from under the mattress. First, he just stands near the bed with the weapon raised. No response. He points the katana at the lump on the bed. Nothing. He hesitates, then swings the blade violently at the figure under the covers, missing him by mere inches. Absolutely nothing. Wade lets out a shaky breath and returns the katana to its customary location. 

Has Spider-Man lost his powers as well as his memory? He hasn’t seen him bend strangely, react instinctively to threats, or stick to anything. Or make web, though Wade was pretty sure that the webbing was technological, not biological, in this universe. 

Troubled, Wade throws a slipper at the boy, startling him awake. The boy’s sudden movement startles Cricket in turn, and there is a moment of chaos before Spidey is sitting up in bed, squinting at Wade in confusion as Cricket takes off down the hallway. “Is there something wrong?” he asks. Wade notices that while his voice is still the gentler version of Spider-Man’s, it has lost a little of its dreamy quality. The eyes, too, have changed, and the boy has more intention when he moves. 

“Do you remember your name?” Wade asks. The boy frowns in concentration, looking more focused than Wade has seen him. Finally, he shakes his head, looking a bit frustrated for a fleeting moment.

“I don’t think so. I’m hungry. Are you going to cook again?” His sweet blue eyes are expectant, and Wade can’t help but laugh.

“Sure. Wanna help?”

The boy nods with enthusiasm and bounces to his feet, catching Wade’s hand in his own and dragging him down the hallway. “How did you sleep?” he asks sweetly. “I slept great.”

Wade’s hand is tingling when the boy releases it upon entering the kitchen. He clears his throat and opens the refrigerator, selecting ingredients as he considers what to make. “I slept fine,” he lies, not mentioning the raging hard on and moral conflict that kept him up. “Chilaquiles?” he inquires, holding up a stack of paper-wrapped tortillas from the  _tortilleria_ down the street. 

The boy hops up onto the counter—the normal, human way, lifting himself with his palms on the countertop. “I don’t know what that is,” he says, but observes, “But for some reason, I don’t think that’s because I don’t remember anything. I remember what most foods are. I don’t think I’ve ever known what cheelakeelas are.”

Wade pats him on the knee. “That’s okay. It’s a traditional Mexican breakfast food. It’s basically pan-fried tortillas with a salsa, and you usually can add eggs or chicken, onion, whatever. It often has cheese on top. Sound good?” The boy nods, lips obediently forming the words yes, sir and Wade shuts his eyes, wondering who he had fucked over in his past life to be punished with an untouchable twink sitting on his counter and calling him sir. Wade forces himself to continue his previous line of reasoning. “I figure since I fed you sugar for dinner last night, you need some protein to start the day today. Wanna help me cut the onion?”

Spidey nods and slides gracelessly off the counter. “Do you have a knife?” he asks as he accepts the yellow onion from Wade. Wade directs him towards his knife block as he works on heating up oil in a pan, cracking eggs and getting them started scrambling, and cutting the tortillas into strips. They are quiet for a moment, the picture of domestic bliss. Then the boy says, casual as you please, “She doesn’t like onions.”

Wade freezes. _That’s some creepy ghost kid shit_ , he thinks, looking around the room. He spots his sweet white cat sitting by her food bowl with an air of impatience. “... Cricket?” he asks at last.

Spidey shakes his head. “No. Her,” he insists, eyebrows pinched together in an adorable look of frustration. Wade asks _Who is ‘her’?_   and watches in concern as the frustration melts away from the boy’s face as he shrugs. “I dunno,” he finally offers. “Her.”

They talk casually as they eat, Spidey delighted with the meal and probing for information about exactly why and how Wade learned to cook. “It started on a mission,” he explains. “I’m kind of like a, like a spy?” He winces—he can hear the lie, but evidently Spidey can’t, as he just gestures for Wade to continue. “I needed to collect information about a ped—a bad man,” he corrects himself. This particular mission had involved a child porn distribution ring, and Wade had needed to determine who else was involved. He was more inconspicuous then, before his change. “So I worked in his restaurant. He didn’t cook, he just owned the place. The chef was this tiny Mexican lady who made some of the best traditional Mexican food I’ve ever eaten. She taught me a lot about how to prepare food, utilize seasonings, cut ingredients differently to different effect...” Wade trails off, remembering the tiny woman with affection. “She made good pasta, too, and delicious bone-broth. She’d sometimes make the employees egg noodles in pork broth on cold days.”

“Where was this?” Spidey asks, dragging his last bit of egg and tortilla through a mixture of salsa verde and half-melted queso fresco. 

“Russia,” Wade replies shortly, feeling suddenly self conscious about telling stories of his past to an amnesiac. 

But Spidey isn’t ready to let it go. He sets a hand on Wade’s and looks him in the eye, asking with concern and admiration in his baby blues, “You got him, right? The bad guy?”

Wade feels half-forgotten bloodlust in his distant memory, recalls a beheaded child molester and fifteen bullets shot into the servers that supported the man’s kiddy porn website. “Yup!” he says, feeling Deadpool come to the surface of his skin. “And all his buddies, too, don’t you worry, baby boy.”

...

A while later, Wade is crouching in front of Spidey, who is sitting on the couch with a pout on his face, explaining to him as gently as possible what needed to happen. “Look, baby boy,” he pleads. “I’ve got to go run an errand, and you’ve got to stay right here. Okay? I’m going to a place that’s a little dangerous, and not meant for sweetie pies like you.” He glances around. “Do you want me to put on a movie for you?” he tries.

The boy has his arms crossed and a monstrously cute pout on his face, his blue eyes stormy. “I _want_ to come with you.”

This is how their conversation had been going for a while now. Exasperated, Wade tries to make eye contact, but the boy refuses to look at him. Wade stands and grips his chin in one hand, tilting his head back and forcing him to look Wade in the eye. The boy’s cheeks flush brilliantly. With firmness, Wade explains again. “I’m leaving. You are staying right. Here. That’s final. Do you understand?”

The boy squirms, cheeks red, pupils dilated, but he whispers “Yes, sir.” And it hits Wade all at once that Spidey is as natural a submissive as he’s ever seen. _I bet he’d whimper if you bit him_  says a dark voice in Wade’s mind. 

He lets go of the boy and for a beat they are both quiet. When Spidey speaks, petulance has re-entered his tone. “I want one of those thingies, though.” Wade watches him mime something over his lap, confused. His baby boy would be terrible at charades. The boy’s eyes dart up to him, cheeks still flushed. “With the, uhh, they’ve got words inside?”

“A book?” Wade asks faintly. The boy nods, beaming, repeating the word. “One second, I think I have something.”

Truthfully, Wade enjoys a good novel every now and then, but he tends to donate them upon completion, not one to horde books or reread them. He only keeps his favorites. He has a small box of them in his closet, and he is pretty sure he has a copy of—yes, there it is. Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. It always amuses him to have the Canadian copy that kept the original Philosopher instead of Sorcerer. 

He had assumed—perhaps naively—that the book would be a relaxing re-read, but the boy insists he has never read the book before. Wade wonders if that is true as he settles the boy on the couch with a mug of instant hot cocoa and his book. “Stay right here,” he orders, watching the boy shiver at the commanding tone in his voice. Fascinating. Wade should leave before he thinks too much about that. 

He quickly feeds Cricket—who looks positively irritated at him for feeding the new guy before her—and heads out the door, pulling his hood up as he does so. He doesn’t usually go to Sister Margaret’s without his costume, but he is still feeling strange about wearing it.

The bar is dead because of the fairly early hour—10:30—but Weasel is still found at the counter, tapping away at an ancient laptop with piles of small bills spread out on the counter, each one dirtier and more torn than the last. “Hey, Wade,” he greets without looking up. “It’s early, what do you want?”

Wade drops himself into a bar stool, disrupting the piles of cash as he lays his head on his arms on the bar. “The sweet release of death, Weasel. Spider-Man is at my condo.”

Weasel blinks at him. “Spider-Man is at your condo? Is he trying to kill you?” 

“No.”

“Make you an X-man?”

“No.”

“Jesus Christ, did you kidnap him?”

Wade winces. Weasel stares at him in horror, mouth agape, and Wade explains as quickly as possible. “I found him unconscious on a roof top—shut up, Weasel, I’m not done—and when he woke up he was confused. He doesn’t know who Spider-Man is, or who I am, or what his secret identity is.”

“So you’ve been fucking an amnesiac twink and now Stark is going to rip you into ribbons?“

Wade groans into the sleeves of his hoodie. “I’m not a rapist, Weasel, just a homicidal maniac... nothing has happened between us, I swear. I don’t want to take his virginity if he doesn’t even know whether or not he’s a virgin, that’s... that’s fucked.”

Weasel makes a noncommittal noise. “So why are you here when you have the boy you called ‘the love of both your life and your cock’ at your place?”

Wade picks up his head. “I think he’s lost his powers. I think I need to call Stark.”

Weasel considers him. “But you don’t want him to leave yet.“

Wade thinks about the boy’s sweet demeanor, his beautiful skin, the way he looks at Wade like he’s his own personal hero, how easy it is to talk to him about himself. “I don’t want him to leave ever,” he breathes. 

In the end, the decision is made for him. The phone rings, and Wade thinks nothing of it as Weasel answers it with a gruff, “Sister Margaret’s, you choose ‘em we bruise ‘em. ... Uh huh.” Weasel makes eye contact with Wade. “... Yeah, he’s actually here right now. I can put him on.”

Weasel holds out the receiver to him, saying only, “You're gonna wanna take this, bud.”

Wade holds the phone up to his ear, and a sense of cold horror washes over him as the voice begins to speak. “Deadpool?” 

Wade inhales, but his voice comes out normal. “That’s my name, Stark.”

“Listen—” The voice is just as demanding of attention in conversation as it is in press release. “—I don’t call you unless it’s a last resort, so I hope you understand how serious this is. Spider-Man has gone missing, and we need to find him. Do you agree to help?”

“Yeah, Stark, listen—”

“Excellent. Is this line secure?”

“Yes? But—”

“His daytime name is Peter Parker, he was last seen leaving work over two weeks ago, on the 10th. He’s 5’7” and about 140 pounds, blue eyes and brown hair. He is my student and protege by day and he lives with his aunt, May Parker, in apartment C14 on 112th St. He works at the coffee place around the corner from there, and his best friend is a kid named Ned Leeds—”

There’s more information, but Wade is stuck on the name. _Peter_. 

“I know where he is, Stark.” he interrupts. “I’ve got him.”

There is a moment of silence, then a scream of rage. “YOU SON OF A _BITCH_ , WILSON, I WILL SKIN YOU ALIVE, I’LL SHOOT YOU INTO OUTER FUCKING SPACE, YOU'VE BEEN HOLDING HIM HOSTAGE FOR TWO FUCKING WEEKS—”

“WHOA!” Wade shouts into the receiver, holding the phone away from his ear. “Calm down, Stark, I found him less than 24 hours ago! I was going to call you, but he begged me not to.” On the other end of the line is only heavy breathing. Wade takes that as his cue to continue. “He’s acting really strange, Stark. I’m no expert, but I think he’s lost his powers. He’s definitely lost his memory.”

There is another stretch of silence. Stark has pain and guilt and anger in his tone as he finally manages to say, “Where am I sending the car?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Totally a plot in here somewhere


	5. Little Spider and the Laboratory of Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s long and has lots of dialogue. I’m sorry. I’m just a biologist trying to make it in this bitch of a hobby

By the time Wade is approaching his apartment, there is already a conspicuously sleek and expensive black car parked out front, with one tire up on the sidewalk. As Wade comes closer, he recognizes Stark’s bodyguard, Happy or Silly or Dopey, he thinks he is called. The window slides down, and the man’s _no-nonsense, buddy_ face glares at Wade. “Yeah, yeah,” He waves off the man. “I’ll go get him.”

Every step feels like a step towards the gallows, his heart sinking at the knowledge that it is time for his baby boy to go. They’ve spent less than a day together, but Wade already knows how empty the condo will feel—how empty he will feel when the boy is gone. Wade waits for a while outside his door, prolonging the inevitable. But he’s had his heart torn to shreds literally—this can’t be THAT much worse, can it? His sweet angel is still on the couch where he left him, engrossed in the book and more than a third of the way through even though Wade had only been gone an hour.

“Peter?” Wade calls. The boy doesn’t respond, either too engrossed in the book or still too foggy to react to being spoken to, Wade thinks. “Baby boy?”

That gets his attention. “Wade!” he nearly squeals, carefully setting his book on the coffee table next to his empty mug and pushing himself to his feet. Wade’s arms are suddenly full of his baby boy, Wade’s nose is full of his smell, his ears are full of his voice whispering _I missed you_. Then the boy— _Peter_ , he still savors the name—stands up on his tippy-toes and pulls Wade down by a hand on the back of his neck to kiss him on the cheek. Wade feels his heart break. He wraps his arms around the boy and buries his nose in his hair.

But his voice is light and cheerful as he speaks to Peter, his baby boy, his spider. “Hey, baby boy. I missed you. Do you wanna come with me to do errands? I was thinking we could also go to a doctor to talk to about your memories..?”

Peter grins at him, then parts from his embrace. “Yeah! That’s a good idea. I should probably go to the doctor. But I don’t have health insurance.” At this statement, his face falls and he looks foggily troubled. “At least, I’m pretty sure I don’t have health insurance. Wade, I can’t afford to go to the doctor.”

Wade tucks a strand of his hair behind his ear. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I will always take care of you. And I technically have, like, really great health insurance.” Unexpected tears sting his eyes and he turns away from the boy towards the door. “C’mon, we have a taxi waiting on us.”

Peter doesn’t comment on the car that is clearly too nice to be a taxi, merely looking around at everything in quiet interest as though he’d never seen New York before. Stark's body guard looks at him in the mirror with an expression of deep concern. “Hey, kid,” he greets him uncertainly.

Spidey looks mildly surprised to be addressed, but smiles politely at Happy. “Hello, mister.”

His expression darkens with worry. “It’s... it’s Happy, Peter.”

Wade watches with distant amusement as his baby boy promptly sticks out his hand and says in a friendly tone, “Nice to meet you, Happy Peter!”

Happy takes his hand, looking shaken, and doesn’t speak for the rest of the drive, choosing to glare at Wade instead as though the state of the boy is somehow his fault. Or maybe like he thinks Wade has been doing sick and depraved things to him. _It’s not like you haven’t thought about it_ , goads a cruel voice in his mind. _We all know you dreamt about webbing him upside-down to a wall and shoving your cock down his thr—_

Wade shakes his head violently, focusing instead on how cute Peter is as he ooohs and ahhhs at what should be familiar sights. Thinking and doing are different things. He’s taken good care of Peter. Right? At this moment, he realizes that in his stress, he has lead Peter out of the apartment dressed in oversized pajamas and slippers and nothing else. And Wade has forgotten the Spider-Suit. He winces. 

The drive between Wade’s condo and Stark tower doesn’t take overly long, and with five minutes to go, the tower comes into view. Wade has always admired the structure for its futuristic beauty, even after visiting a handful of times over the years. He opens his mouth to point the tower out to Peter as “the doctor’s office” when he is interrupted by the boy himself, who has his eyes locked on the tower and tension in every line of his body. 

“I don’t want to go there,” he states resolutely. “That is a bad place.”

Wade glances in the direction of Spidey’s fearful glare. “Stark Tower?”

The boy flinches at the name but nods. “Yeah. I don’t want to go.”

Thinking quickly, Wade lies, “Oh, good thing we aren’t going there. Hey, wanna play a game?” The boy is instantly somewhat distracted from the tower at this. He nods hesitantly. Wade tries his luck. “Okay, have you ever heard of a staring contest? Well, this is like an anti-staring contest. We see who can keep their eyes closed the longest.” Wade makes eye contact with Happy in the rearview—he looks as skeptical as Wade feels, but the boy quietly agrees to play.

Wade counts down from three and watches Peter close his eyes, his eyelashes nearly skimming his freckled cheeks. Happy makes a _harrumph_  noise from the front seat, obviously miffed that this worked. The boy reaches out a hand towards Wade’s face, nearly poking him in the eye before Wade shut his eyes. “Can’t let you cheat,” the boy mumbles, a smile in his tone. Wade blindly reaches out for Peter’s face as well, placing his large, scarred hand over the top half of the boy’s face. He would like not to have to deal with a potentially super-powered temper tantrum.

Wade casts around for something to keep Peter distracted. “What’s your... what’s your favorite animal?”

“Cricket.” That was fair.

“Your favorite book?”

“That one you gave me earlier about the wizard.”

“Your favorite food..?”

Wade feels Peter’s nose scrunch under his palm. “Uhm, it comes in triangles?”

“Nachos?”

“No... big triangles.”

“Oh! Is it pizza?”

The boy nods, nearly dislodging Wade’s hand. “Yes! Pizza. What’s your favorite food, Wade?”

The car is slowing down, the sound of the engine changing. Wade thought they must be in a garage now. “Uhh, Mexican. Anything Mexican, but in particular, tacos. Maybe we could get some after this.” Wade pauses, realizing that there would be no after this.

The car stops, and Happy puts it in park. The engine shuts off. Wade opens his eyes, smiling warmly as the boy squeals about winning the game, his own eyes opening and looking into Wade’s heart of hearts, blue as anything he's ever seen, blue as anything ever could be. “Let’s go see the doctor,” Wade suggests, enough pain in his voice that Happy gives him a sharp look over his shoulder. 

Peter is awed into silence by the building as they enter, taking in the technology, the imposing metal and glass and white, the never-ending hallways. He glances up at Wade as though seeking permission, and when Wade looks down at him, question in his eyes, Peter grabs the man’s thick bicep and walks closer, almost like he wants Wade to protect him. Happy leads them into a room that looks like a doctor’s office attached to a medical lab, full of state-of-the-art medical equipment that Wade recognizes from TV shows like House but couldn’t name. 

Happy puts a finger to his ear and speaks in low tones. “I’ve got him in Lab 12. He’s pretty bad, Tones, he had no idea who I was and he didn’t respond to his name. You need to get down here.” Happy pauses, listening, then says “Got it.” He ruffles Peter’s beautiful brown hair and says, “Be good, kid.” Then he’s gone. 

Wade helps the boy up onto an exam table, where he sits swinging his slipper-clad feet, blathering on about how cool the building and the equipment are. Wade watches them in the mirror for just a second, taking in his out-of-place looks and demeanor next to an angel comfortable surrounded by the sterility of a lab. Then he says, “Stay right there, baby boy, I’ll be back in just a second.”

He steps out of the room, hoping to cut Stark off before he bursts in and startles Peter. He shuts the door behind him and is positively enamored to realize that the mirror was, in fact, one way. He stands at the window, hands gripping tight on the sill, watching Peter entertain himself by swinging his feet, singing, tapping his fingers on the metal table beneath him. He is breathtaking, carefree like a puppy and sweeter than honey. Exactly what Wade didn’t know he needed. 

Stark appears at the end of the hall, moving at what could kindly be described as a desperate jog. He looks positively haggard, with deep shadows under his eyes, and a three-day (at least) beard growing in around his customary salt and pepper goatee. He nearly ignores Wade, going straight for the door, but Wade stops him with a hand on his shoulder. Anger twisting his lips, Stark shrugs off the hand but stills, glaring at Wade. “What?” he snaps. The older man’s eyes find Peter in the window and he visible sags in relief at seeing him whole, conscious, and smiling as he taps his feet together.

Wade takes a deep breath. “I don’t know how to tell you this, Stark,” he says. “But I think Peter is scared of you. Like, terrified.”

He watches Stark try to process this in his sleep-deprived brain. He watches Stark fail to do so. “Why would he be afraid of me? He’s my... my...”

Wade can imagine some of the things Stark might complete that sentence with. _He’s like a son to me_ , he might say, or, _he’s my protege_. Maybe even _he’s my friend_. None of these things leave his brain, though, so Wade continues bluntly, “He screams every time I mention your name, and the moment he saw the tower he flipped out. He doesn’t know he’s in Stark Tower right now or I’m positive he’d be breaking down the door.”

He sees something break and harden ominously in the man’s eyes. Wade thinks he must have just confirmed Stark’s suspicions that this wasn’t about Peter, but Stark. Not looking away from the boy, Stark speaks to the room. “Get Bruce over here. Tell him it’s an emergency and we found Peter.”

By the time Dr. Banner arrives—mere minutes later, it is not lost on Wade how powerful that makes Stark—it has become almost funny to watch Stark watch Peter with an expression of platonic love, worry, and longing. Like a pure, healthy version of Wade’s own feelings. He glances into the window, wondering if he should feel fatherly towards the boy. Is he old enough to be Peter’s father? ... He doesn’t think so. Wade is 32. Peter is at least 18, he thinks, he hopes. He can still get away with being more daddy than father. But back to Banner.

“I thought you weren’t that kind of doctor,” Wade calls out. Banner looks in through the window for a few moments at Peter.

“... I’m not,” he says dryly, having assured himself that Peter is safe. “Try telling that to Tony. What are you doing here, Deadpool? Why aren’t you in your suit?”

Wade shifts self consciously, realizing all at once that he is, indeed, not in his suit—his first ever time in the tower or around the Avengers without it. Slowly, he puts up his hood, feeling like an unwelcome unwelcome at his girlfriend’s dinner table. “I’ve been watching him. For about a day. Found him unconscious on a rooftop yesterday afternoon.”

Banner gives him the side-eye. “Do we believe him, Tony?”

Tony gives a jerky nod, not taking his eyes off of Peter. “For now. He says Peter is scared of me. Will you drop my name while you’re in there?”

Banner nods shortly and clasps Stark’s shoulder for a second. Then he enters the room and Tony says to the room, “Jarvis? Get me the audio for Lab 12.”

“—to meet you, Peter. My name is Bruce Banner.”

“My name isn’t Peter, sir?”

“My apologies. Could I know your name?”

Peter shrugs casually. “Yeah. My name is Baby Boy.” 

_Oooooh, fuck_. Wade flinches. Stark rounds on him with fury in his eyes and Wade pleads, “Stark, I swear, I didn’t do that on purpose. I didn’t have anything to call him, I didn’t know his name was Peter.”

Stark doesn’t yell at him, but he also doesn’t speak, focusing back on the conversation happening in the other room. Peter is listing off all the things he knows about himself. “I like cats and pancakes and cheelakeelas, and I live with my friend, Wade. He brought me here.” Peter leans in to Banner, grinning conspiratorially. “I think he’s cute. Do you know him?”

Banner looks over his shoulder at the mirror, where he can’t see Wade staring straight ahead with a blank face while Stark glares dangerously at him. Wade’s stomach is in knots. _Is it just because he was hit on the head or whatever?_ he wonders. Banner presses on, looking vaguely uncomfortable. “Do you remember your aunt?” _No._ “Do you remember being Spider-Man?”

That garners a violent reaction, as Wade figured it would. Peter clasps his hands over his ears, eyes screwing up in anger and fear, and yells “Don’t say that to me!”

Banner keeps his composure, but Stark does not, stepping back and running both hands through his hair. Stark’s watch speaks to him. “May Parker is on her way up, Tony,” says Happy’s voice.

Stark curses, still listening intently to the conversation happening in the other room. “I need to listen,” he insists to no one.

Wade swallows. “I can... explain? To May? Is that his aunt?”

Stark nods, wordless, transfixed as Banner leads Peter to an MRI. The elevators doors open, and there is a petite woman with dark bags under her eyes and tan skin steps out, looking harried. “Tony,” she cries out upon seeing Stark. “Tony, is he okay?”

She clicks over to them in her heels, eyes finding Peter through the window. She visibly relaxes, then scrubs her hands over her eyes, a small bit of hysterical laughter escaping her as Stark confirms that he’s physically okay. “But he’s lost his memory, May,” he says softly. “Maybe his powers. Wilson here can explain, I need to listen, I’m sorry.”

Aunt May, amazingly, allows Wade to lead her a few feet away. He takes down his hood, to be polite, and stands as straight as if he were speaking to his drill sergeant. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” he begins, formally. “Wade Wilson,” he introduces himself, truthfully. “Special forces,” he continues, bending the truth just a little. “Hero,” he finishes, wondering if he is lying. “I found your son—your nephew, my apologies—unconscious on a rooftop yesterday. He’s physically fine but doesn’t have any personal memories. There doesn’t seem to be any other real cognitive issues—he’s still brilliant, he can still read. I’ve been taking care of him the best I can, but I didn’t know where to take him.”

May hugs him. Wade freezes, and she is shaking, saying into his shirt, “Thank you, Wade.”

She pulls away and wipes her nose. “You’re such a gentleman,” she praises him. “Thank you for taking care of my boy.”

Then Bruce Banner exits the room. “He’s blind, Tony,” he’s saying, frustrated. “There’s nothing wrong with his eyes or his brain, but no matter what kind of lens I put in front of his eyes, nothing helps.”

Struck by something, Wade turns to Aunt May. “Ma’am, may I ask you if Peter needed glasses before his change?”

She nods, watching Peter like a hawk as though she could diagnose him with sheer love and willpower. “Yes. It was one of the first weird things I noticed that lead me to figuring out he was Spider-Man.”

Wade glances at Stark and Banner—they both look surprised. They must not have known. Aunt May continues vaguely, “And his appetite increased a ton, I suddenly could barely afford to feed him, the poor thing.”

Wade puts his head in his hands, laughing out loud at this revelation. “That’s not gone,” he says. “Maybe he hasn’t really lost his powers.”

Banner turns on his heel. “Maybe he’s suppressing them,” he wonders aloud. “Look, Wilson, he’s asking for you. Will you go in and talk to him while I run some tests?”

...

Bruce, Tony, and May stand shoulder to shoulder, watching Peter giggle as Wade blows a latex glove into a balloon. They both glow around the other, looking relaxed and happy. “Nothing seems to be physically wrong with him,” Bruce explains quietly. “But if you mention spiders or you, Tony, he acts like he’s being tortured. I think Wilson was onto something, he might be repressing his memories and powers. That would be... better than the alternative, to say the least.” He runs a hand through his hair. “He insists that Wilson has been treating him just fine.”

“That Wade is a good boy,” Aunt May responds, her words immediate and certain. Neither man contradicts her, despite both of them disagreeing to varying degrees. “A mother can always tell who is or isn’t good for their child.” Neither man has the balls, either, to correct her to say that she’s not really his mother in the truest sense of the word.

She brushes Tony’s shoulder. “This isn’t your fault, Tony,” she says quietly. Then she addresses Bruce. “Dr. Banner, I know he won’t know me, but can I go in and speak to him?”

The two men watch and listen as May introduces herself as a passerby that couldn’t help but notice how much Peter looks like her nephew, who is away, and can she have a hug? Stark turns off the speaker to give them privacy, and turns to speak with Bruce about possible routes to heal Peter and find whoever was responsible for his kidnap and possible torture.

After a while, May emerges and announces, “Peter is going home with that nice young man, Tony, I don’t think he should stay here.” And _all hell_ breaks loose.


	6. Lord of the Spiders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving!

One hour of polite yelling later— _TONY, EXCUSE ME FOR SAYING SO BUT I AM HIS LEGAL GUARDIAN—MAY, I RESPECT YOU VERY MUCH, BUT YOU NEED TO REALIZE THAT HE IS AN ADULT AND YOU CAN’T—IF HE IS AN ADULT, TONY, HE SHOULD BE ABLE TO MAKE HIS OWN DECISIONS, I’M SORRY, BUT HE IS GOING HOME WITH MR. WILSON—_ Wade is sitting in the back of a black Lexus, stunned, having not said a single word in the entire discussion (aside from a quick “Yes ma’am” when asked if he was _willing_ to keep watching Peter) and still gotten his way. He can't remember anything he'd ever wanted in his whole life being his so easily. Peter is pressed against his side, having picked up on the tension between Wade, Banner, Happy, and May and quite unsettled by it. After the car started rolling, though, Peter—thankfully never realizing he’d been inside Stark Tower—starts chattering away about “the nice lady” and “my new doctor.”

It’s precious. Like having a puppy that can talk. Wade watches Peter, feeling deeply, deeply distant from the man he’s been pretending to be. Deadpool has gotten his revenge—on Francis, on Weapon X—and now Wade needs this. Happy hesitates before letting them out of the car, trying to find words for Wade. He settles on, “You heard the boss,” and indeed, Wade had heard Stark loud and clear when he had hissed _Wilson I swear to fuck I will use every bit of my not inconsiderable intellect, resources, and connections to find a way to make you die if you hurt that kid or take advantage of him in any way._  Happy had not heard Wade’s response, he is pretty sure. It was, _Stark, if I hurt Peter, I hope you can find a way to kill me._  

Happy follows up his disguised threat with, “See you soon, kid.”

“Bye, Happy Peter!” Spidey waves at Happy as he shuts the car door. Then he turns his attention to the condominium and says, “Oh, Wade, we live here! I want to see Cricket.” 

He takes Wade by the hand as they walk inside and head to the elevator. Finally, the memory of Peter confessing to Banner that he has a crush on Wade returns to him, and there is warmth in his stomach and in his groin. “Do you like me?” he asks Peter as they enter the elevator, knowing the answer would be clear and truthful.

Peter offers him a shy, crooked little smile, nibbling his lower lip, blue eyes peeking through a forest of lashes. A beautiful blush stains his cheeks and his freckled nose, and Wade dares to hope that that is his answer. The silence grows almost awkward as the elevator climbs slowly up two dozen stories, and then Peter asks almost flirtatiously, “Do you like me, Wade?”

The answer is _yes, so much, always yours, everything I want_ , but Wade only nods shakily and hopes the rest is in his eyes. The elevator dings and they step out. Beautifully, nothing awkward lasts long with Peter—he bounces out down the hallway towards Wade’s condo, just as comfortable as he’s ever been, blathering on about Cricket, who he spends ten minutes searching for before he remembers what Wade said about her hiding under the bed. 

Wade watches from his armchair as the boy settles onto the couch, Cricket purring in his arms. “I’m sleepy, Wade,” he complains. “Will you cuddle me?”

Can Wade handle that? The answer is no, so his answer has to be no. “Aren’t you hungry?” he offers, thinking about how fucking hot it would be to have a bouncy Peter squirming around in his lap, his ass brushing against Wade’s cock, innocently asking _what do you have in your pocket, daddy?_  Thank fuck, Peter takes the bait, saying, “Oh, yes, please. Can I take a nap while you cook?”

At Peter’s insistence, Wade tucks him in on the couch (“I’ll sleep better if I can hear you cooking, Wade, I promise!”), then heads into the kitchen, feeling emotionally rung out. He stares into the fridge for a long time, thinking in equal measures about holding Peter close to protect him and holding Peter close to cum as deep inside him as possible. He snaps out of it when the fridge beeps, feeling instantly guilty. Maybe he should call Stark to come get Peter. He would, no questions asked. He’s nearly out of food, too. He finds a pound of ground sirloin in the freezer, and a box of pasta and a jar of tomato sauce in the pantry, and decides to make spaghetti with meat sauce, vowing to go the next day to the grocery store.

He gets a text while he is filling his stock pot with water from the sink. He sets the pot on the stove and cranks up the burner before he pulls his flip phone out to check the message. ON MY WAY 15 MINUTES — MAY. Painstakingly, he types back YES MAAM MAKING PASTA. EAT WITH US?

He doesn’t receive an answer, so he goes back to cooking. He gets out his last half-head of garlic and minces a clove to fry in a bit of olive oil—he’s always thought that jarred sauce could be improved by leaps and bounds with simple stuff like that. He throws the frozen meat on and turns the heat down low. As he’s coating the meat with liberal amounts of garlic powder, onion powder, fresh cracked black pepper, and sea salt, he gets another text from Aunt May saying only OUTSIDE.

Wade hurries over to the door, wiping his hands on his apron as he goes, and sure enough, Peter’s Aunt is there in the doorway, looking stressed but comfortable with her surroundings. Wade greets her in low, exceedingly polite tones. “Hello again Ms. Parker. Peter is asleep, would you like to come in? Are you joining us?”

She shakes her head, holding out a small duffel bag to Wade. He takes it from her and holds it in his arms as she speaks. “No, dear, I’ve got to go into work—I switched shifts with someone to be able to go see Peter this afternoon.” She must see the doubt on Wade’s face, because she reaches out to touch his cheek. “Oh, Wade. You remind me so much of my late husband, Ben. He was just like you when we met—a polite military boy, sort of rough around the edges. Needing love, I suppose. Peter is needing love, too. He needed it even before all this.”

She leans up and kisses him on the cheek. “Keep me updated, Wade. He should have everything he needs in there, including his favorite books. Take good care of him.”

_No pressure_ , he thinks sarcastically but fondly as she walks away. Wade already likes her very much, has vague thoughts of what a great mother-in-law she would be—but that’s all contingent on whether or not he molests her only surviving family in the meantime. Wade must be racking up a lot of karma from not exacting his perverted fantasies on the boy if he’s being rewarded with sweet Peter tied with a bow, in his home with his aunt’s blessing.

...

Wade watches the boy sleeping for what he hopes is an appropriate amount of time—somewhere between loving and creepy—before waking him for dinner. “C’mon, baby boy. Come eat.”

Peter stirs slowly, stretching like a cat, the blankets falling off his body as Cricket jumps off of his shifting chest. His shirt rides up, revealing a strip of smooth, soft-looking skin—basically the opposite of Wade’s. Wade’s mouth is dry and he swallows before continuing. “I made spaghetti, follow me. Want some water, sweetheart?”

The boy nods sleepily. “I had a weird dream,” he says as he follows Wade into the kitchen and sits at the counter. “It was like I was flying, but also falling. Like, switching back and forth. It was fun.”

Wade thinks about that as he uses tongs to fill two bowls with spaghetti, then tops them both with generous servings of bolognese. Maybe Peter was thinking about swinging from his webs—it has always looked like fun to Wade. “Weird,” Wade comments noncommittally as he sets the bowl and a fork in front of the boy, who begins eating immediately. Wade goes to fill glasses of water before he starts eating himself. “I never remember my dreams.” _Unless you’re in them._

Wade stands at the counter to eat, across from Peter but not directly in front of him, not wanting to eat over the sink. The flavor is fine—Wade prefers to make it a lot spicier, but he hadn’t been sure whether Peter liked spicy food. Peter seems delighted with the meal, however, complimenting Wade and making pleased noises. “We’re out of food, baby boy. I’ve gotta go to the grocery store tomorrow. What do you like to eat?” 

Peter shrugs. “Stuff you make,” he says. “I wanna go to the store, too.”

Wade makes a mental note to text May about Peter’s favorite foods. “I’m not sure about that, baby boy. What if you get lost?” _I’ll kill someone._

Peter rolls his sweet blue eyes. “What if you get lost?” he counters. Wade snorts, eliciting a pout from Peter. “ _You_ could get lost!”

Wade shakes his head. “Baby boy, you are a beautiful little twink who trusts everyone. I’m a 240 pound, 6’4” _bastard_ who looks like they’ve been deep fried.”

Peter considers this. “I’d totally kidnap you,” he offers consolingly. 

Wade laughs, but he’s thinking about how he only stopped bottoming because he stopped being able to find people who were stronger than him. Spider-Man is most definitely stronger than him, even if this sweet, amnesiac Peter is not. Spider-Man, fully powered, _could_ kidnap Wade and have his way with him. Wade recalls his fantasy about sticking Peter to the wall and switches their roles in his mind’s eye. Jesus fuck, what he wouldn’t give to choke on Peter’s cock. 

Wade reaches out and ruffles Peter’s hair, noticing as he does so that it’s getting a bit greasy, though it stills looks okay. He’s about finished eating, so as he takes Peter’s bowl and serves him another full meal’s worth of food, he says, “I got a bag full of stuff for you while you were napping, I’ll go find some clean PJs and shampoo for you.” He points at his own head. “I don’t own any shampoo, myself.” That gets a giggle out of Peter. 

Wade heads into the living room, where the duffel sits inconspicuously on the arm chair. He unzips it and starts removing clothing. It smells like Peter—he brings a shirt to his face and breathes the citrusy smell in deeply. He holds the shirt out, halfway high on the smell, and grins at the logo on the shirt. Midtown Debate Team, says the black collegiate lettering on the soft grey shirt. Wade keeps digging, pulling out plaid boxers—cute—and pajama pants with little Millennium Falcons on them. He’s digging around for something that looks like a pajama shirt when his fingers encounter something that feels like paper. “Right,” he mumbles. “Peter’s favorite book.” 

He pulls it out. It's Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. Figures. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Wade.
> 
> Just in case anyone is like hey what the actual fuck are these chapter titles, they are all more or less completely unrelated book titles with one word replaced with Spider. It started because I love the title of the book Girl Interrupted. This one is based on Lord of the Flies. 
> 
> Wilson’s Web is a shitty, shitty, shitty pun on Charlotte’s Web. 
> 
> I can’t decide if I want Wade to crack before Peter regains his memories.
> 
> Alright that’s all the bull I have to spew. I’m out.


	7. Spidering Heights

A while later, Wade emerges from his own shower having had an exceedingly guilty masturbation session that may or may not have involved burying his face in the dirty clothes Peter had left on the floor of the bathroom. But even if his conscience isn’t clean, his body is, and hopefully he smells clean and masculine—like a boyfriend instead of a sweaty one night stand. 

He finds Peter dressed in his own PJ pants, but Wade’s discarded black shirt from the previous day, crouched near his movie shelf. He only has a small collection—less than twenty movies—and wonders if Peter will recognize any of the titles. He has a few in his hands as Wade moves to stand over him—Treasure Planet, Saving Private Perez, and Thelma and Louise. “That one is in Spanish. The middle one.”

Peter shifts to look closer at Saving Private Perez. “Do you speak Spanish, Wade?”

Wade transfers his weight from one foot to the other. “... yeah. Not quite fluent, but enough to get by.”

“Can I hear some?”

Wade thinks for a moment. “ _Mi español es débil, pero mi amor por ti es fuerte_ ,” he says, not for the first time. It’s his go-to pickup line when he’s in South America. “ _Puedo comunicar mi amor con el baile._ ”

Peter is delighted with this revelation. “You’re so smart, Wade,” he praises, setting that movie aside. 

Wade gestures to the other films. “Those both have sad parts. I think maybe Thelma and Louise is both funnier and sadder. The other one is a kid’s movie, so it has a happy ending.” 

Peter rests his head against Wade’s knee, still focused on the two DVD cases. “I like happy endings, don’t you?” Peter asks. Wade makes a noise in his throat to indicate agreement, chest tight.

In the end, the discussion about what to watch turned out to be pretty pointless. Peter is out like a light in less than 15 minutes, his head resting on Wade’s muscular thigh. Wade puts Treasure Planet on mute, sets a heavy, scarred hand on Peter’s sweetly exposed neck, and not long later, falls asleep himself. When he wakes again, it’s some time later—near the end of the movie—and Peter is sleepily demanding to be taken to a proper bed and cuddled.

“You’re going to get yourself deflowered,” Wade mumbles at him as he stands and scoops the boy into his arms, eyes nearly shut as he navigates himself and his bundle through the living room. His neck is sore from sleeping with his head back like that. Peter makes an amused sound, too sleepy to comment. And when Peter curls into Wade’s side with his head on Wade’s broad chest, Wade is too sleepy to stop him. They both sleep soundly.

...

Wade awakes warm and rested, with Peter tucked under his arm. He smiles down at the top of his head and moves the arm not being used as a pillow to stroke his beautiful hair. “Good morning, Wade,” says Peter, making Wade jump.

“I didn’t realize you were awake, baby boy. You could have gotten me up.” 

Peter shifts his head so that he’s looking up at Wade. “I was comfy,” he replied simply, smiling a heartbreakingly sweet smile. 

Wade squeezes him in closer for a moment, then gently slides out from underneath him. “C’mon then, sweetheart. Go brush your teeth, I’ll fix you a bowl of cereal. We can head out to the grocery store after that. You have to wear some real pants though—the jeans in that duffel bag.”

Peter sits up, nodding obediently, then pauses. “Oh, Wade,” he says, eyebrows pinching together cutely, “Can I have some... it makes you awake?” He mimes drinking from something.

Wade recalls that the kid works in a coffee shop. Probably lost that job, though. Regardless, Wade would bet that Peter had gone through pretty severe caffeine withdrawal during the time he was missing—enough that he wants it even through his fog of lost memories. “Coffee? Tea?”

Peter brightens. “The first one. Please.” 

When Peter emerges from the bathroom a short while later—wearing tight light-blue jeans and his Midtown Debate Team T-shirt and looking like he had tried to smooth down his hair—Wade is pouring milk into a fairly large bowl of Mini Wheats and the coffee is almost done. He gestures for his spider to sit, indicating the place on the counter where Wade has set a plate of buttered toast with strawberry jam and a glass of apple juice, and then brings him the bowl. 

“Thank you, Wade.” Peter’s words are sincere. Wade turns away, feeling unexpected heat on his cheeks, and busies himself with pouring two mugs of coffee. He gives Peter his favorite mug—the one with a picture of Fluttershy that says “Fluttershy is best pony”—and keeps a large yellow mug that says BIG HUG MUG for himself. 

“How do you take it?” Wade asks his charge, feeling rather like they were making small talk after a one-night stand. 

Peter frowns at this question. “I think I like it with milk,” he says. “I want it to be light brown.”

Wade obediently pours a finger of milk into the mug and hands it over to Peter. He takes his own hot and black, the hotter the better, and relishes the burn down his throat—instantly healed—as he takes a gulp from the mug. “Ahh,” he says. Then, “Is that enough food for you? I have a banana. It’s a little mushy but still good.”

“Is it?” Peter asks, giggling. Wade cocks an eyebrow at him, trying to figure out if he is actually making a joke. The boy shakes his head, still smiling. “I’m good, Wade, thank you. Are you going to eat?”

Wade shakes his head. “Nah, it’s too early for me.” He pulls out his phone and sends a text to May—GOODMORNING GOING TO GET GROCERIES WHAT DOES PETER LIKE? He sees then that he has another message from an unknown number. It reads, WILSON, IT’S STARK. SOMEONE WILL BE BY AT NOON TO PICK UP PETER’S SUIT. Wade slowly types out a response. PETER AND I WILL BE GONE TO GET GROCERIES I WILL LEAVE WINDOW UNLOCKED SUIT ON THE BED

Stark responds almost instantly. FINE. TRY NOT TO MAKE ME KILL YOU. 

NOTED <3

FUCK YOU, WILSON.

Wade chuckles dryly at this. Stark and May make for quite the pair of in-laws. He leaves Peter to finish up his breakfast to go make sure that there are shoes in the duffel. He pulls out a pair of classic black vans, beaten almost beyond recognition, and imagines Peter saving up to get them to start high school with. It’s a cute mental image. He finds some socks, too, and turns back to bring them to Peter. He finds his baby boy washing dishes. “Oh, I can take care of that,” Wade offers. Peter shakes his head, not taking his eyes off his task as he smiles.

“No, it’s okay. Go get ready, Wade.”

Wade rushes through his morning routine—brush his teeth, wash his face, stare in the mirror in horror of what his once-beautiful face has become—and pulls on the same jeans from before, an Army shirt he’d gotten for free the last time he hit up the VA for a flu shot, and a hoodie with a big red maple leaf on the the breast. He’s back out to Peter in well under ten minutes, though he pauses to unlock his bedroom window and pull the spider-suit out of the corner of his closet he’d hidden it from Peter in. 

“Why are you wearing a hoodie?” Peter asks his as soon as he re-enters the kitchen. “It’s warm out.”

Wade is thrown for a loop, having thought it was quite obvious why he would be wearing a hoodie. “So people don’t have to, y’know, look at me more than they have to. Don’t want to make kids cry and old ladies vomit.”

Peter is instantly right in front of him, tugging at his hoodie to try to get it off. “That’s bullshit,” he chides. “Take this off.”

Wade grabs the boy by the shoulders and holds him at arm’s length. They glare at each other. “... you can wear a hat,” Peter compromises after a long moment.

Wade hesitates, then nods jerkily, unable to articulate how much he doesn’t want to and therefore choosing not to try to argue. He turns and tugs off the hoodie, then looks down at his arms, held out in front of him. They are hideous and huge—his biceps strain the arms of his shirt. He feels exposed. He gives Peter a withering look, but the boy is very plainly checking him out. What did Wade do to deserve this? He makes a conscious effort not to stomp as he heads back to his room to dig out a beanie, shoving it on his head and not pausing to let Peter catch up as he leaves the condo.

“Brat,” he says to Peter as he catches up, but the boy only grins, grabbing Wade’s left hand and not letting go. They aren’t going far, which is one of the reasons Wade ended up allowing him to tag along. He checks his phone for a text from May as they step out onto the street. She has responded. HE IS NOT PICKY. LIKES THAI ALWAYS ASKS ME TO MAKE STEW.

THANKS, he responds. He is already garnering looks from passersby, but Peter doesn’t seem to notice, just holding Wade’s hand and beaming around at the sights and sounds of New York City. The air feels good, though, and soon Wade finds himself smiling, too, despite looks of pity and horror directed his way. The little grocery market is only two blocks down. “Want to make a big pot of stew with me?” he asks Peter as they step into the claustrophobic shop. 

Before Peter can respond, an older woman with very dark skin and very white hair taps Wade on the shoulder. “Excuse me, young man. Thank you so much for your service.” Wade blinks at her, surprised. People don’t usually approach him. He wonders what made her think he was harmless—the cute boy on his arm, the unhidden face? Peter elbows Wade, reminding him he needs to respond.

“Thank you,” he says, and tries a smile. The woman smiles back and pats him on the arm, walking past them. 

Peter grins cheekily up at him. “I told you, Wade. Let’s get stuff for stew.” 

...

Wade doesn’t fully relax until they are back in the condo. He tasks Peter with pulling all the groceries out of the bag and starting on chopping up an onion, and goes to check that the suit is gone. It is—and in its place is an envelope. Wade opens it and finds several dozen hundred dollar bills inside. He flips over the envelope—it says, “Don’t starve him.” Wade rolls his eyes—not likely. Feeding Peter is probably his new favorite hobby. 

Peter has finished dicing the onion and started peeling potatoes when he comes back. Wade smiles at the sight. “Do you want an apron?” he asks, pulling open his pantry where he has two aprons hung up—one stained white baker’s apron and a smaller one patterned with apples. He holds the second one out to Peter, who takes it and puts it on in one fluid motion, flipping it around, tightening it, and tying it. Wade can suddenly see him in his little barista uniform behind the counter in a coffee shop, smiling and saying _What can I get you today, sir?_

So fucking cute. 

Wade gets to work seasoning and browning the meat, and they work in companionable silence for a while. Peter starts humming to himself—it takes Wade a moment to place it, but it sounds like 8 Days a Week. Wade hums along, feeling happier than he has in years. 

...

Weasel: WADE ITS BEEN THREE DAYS, JOBS ARE PILING UP. ARE YOU DONE WITH SPIDER-TWINK YET?

Weasel: OR DID STARK KILL YOU OUTRIGHT?

Weasel: PROBABLY FOR THE BEST FOR SOCIETY IF HE DID

Weasel: PLUS I’D WIN A FUCKTON OF MONEY

Wade: FUCK U

Wade: CHANGE OF PLANS FUCKER

Wade: FROM NOW ON IM ONLY DOING PEDOPHILES CHILD ABUSERS & TRAFFICKERS

Weasel: KIND OF LATE TO BE GOING MORAL ON ME

Wade: A SWEET PIECE OF ASS WILL DO THAT TO U WEASEL U SHOULD TRY HAVING SEX WITH A LIVING PERSON

Weasel: FUCK YOU WADE I HOPE YOU GO BROKE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh shit we got character development up in this bitch.


	8. Spider’s Progress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: nonexplicit suicide mention, minor character.

Tony Stark has been averaging 6 hours of sleep every 48 hours for nearly a month. His beautiful wife has been taking care of most of the corporate nightmare that he usually lives, and he’s only worked on his projects when he thinks that distracting himself might help him achieve a breakthrough with Peter. Tests, research, investigations, data, interrogations—and no real leads on a motive, cure, or perpetrator. 

He sits at his desk, paralyzed, insomnia-dulled eyes fixed on his open email, knowing he would never have solved this puzzle, even with PIs and the Avengers on his payroll. The subject line had caught him immediately: Concerning Peter Parker. The email reads:

Mr. Stark,

These are my final words; this is my last note to write before I move on to be with my son. By the time this email reaches you, I will be cold and dead. I find comfort in that; I hope you do, too. 

Three years ago, my son, Daniel Danvers, was killed in the crossfire when your people got involved with a drug ring here in the city. I cannot lie to you; my son was not an innocent in that situation. But he did not deserve to die. 

I blame you for his death, Stark. I blame the Avengers.

I study memory and trauma in a tenured position at NYU. I’ve been there for a long time; they gave me a sabbatical when Daniel passed. But there is never enough time to be over the loss of your only son. When I returned to work, I still thought all the time of my boy, but being forced to think about my research, too, I began to wonder: Can I, a powerless psychology professor, exact revenge in my own way?

I began to envision being able to use my research on how trauma impacts memory to reduce the number of trigger-happy suited vigilantes with hero complexes and high tech weapons on the streets of my city. I thought, if I can use operant conditioning to cause heroes to repress their identity as a hero, I could lower that number without hurting anyone. I could just release them as normal citizens after a while. They wouldn’t even know what monsters they used to be.

My reasoning for choosing Spider-Man was two-fold. First, he was an easy target. Always in the same places at the same times, obviously desperate to prove himself, vulnerable and trusting. Wet behind the ears; not too busy to help an old man carry groceries, like the big dogs in your club. Second, I knew he was important to you. I saw him disappearing into your tower, noticed that his suit was your tech. Then I noticed that your protege, the sweet young engineer you established an entire micro-university for, that you bring on your arm to charity balls when your wife is busy, was about the right height and weight to be the Spider-Man. I wondered at first if he was your lover, but it seemed more like you loved him like a son. That tasted sweet to me, Mr. Stark. I wanted him to reject your fatherly love and guidance; to reject the man you made him to be. Then you could know what it was like to build a man from the ground up and lose him.

I’ve included PDFs of all of my notes, in case you can find a way to reverse the damage; I couldn’t. The short of it is that I hit the boy with a tranquilizer just a block from his house. I was posing as a wheel-chair bound man needing assistance. He passed out almost instantly and a moment later I had switched places with him, wrapped him in a blanket, and I was wheeling him back to my car. I deactivated his suit; I won’t tell you how, Stark, I think you’ll enjoy that puzzle. It was a simple procedure after that. I strapped him down and hooked him up to scanning equipment from my lab; Stark Industries Tech. Then I gave him a cocktail of drugs to force him to focus and I read out a short list of words and phrases. _Tony Stark. Iron Man. Stark Industries. Stark Tower. The Avengers. Spider-Man. Super-hero. Superpowers. Spider-Man. Tony Stark. Spider-Man. Stark Tower. Spider-Man._  Your tech recorded what parts of his brain lit up. 

I made a mistake, Stark. It was supposed to learn as it went, reaching into the deepest parts of his mind that are associated with the original stimuli, but it didn’t work. It started building off of other networks without my notice.  I was trying to shock him whenever he thought about being Spider-Man, but his identity as Spider-Man was so deeply tied to his identity as Peter Parker that he was shocked if he thought about _anything_. And I, arrogant and weak, wasn’t there to prevent this because I couldn’t bear to see the boy suffer. 

I tried to fix it, Stark. You will see my notes on that. I was left with a vague, sweet boy with no name and no past and no powers. Because I am weak. And because I am weak, I knocked him out, put him back in his deactivated suit, and left him on a rooftop where I thought you might be looking for him. 

We are even now; a son for a son. But just as there is nothing you can do to replace Daniel, there is nothing I can do to restore Peter. I cannot make my peace with myself, so I go to make my peace with my maker instead. I go to be with Daniel. I hope that you can be with Peter again someday.

With respect and grief,

-Dr. Gregory Danvers, PhD

...

As the days pass, Peter relaxes into what Wade thinks is probably closer to his true personality. It’s a little sassier, like Spider-Man had been—a little more independent, like he thinks Peter Parker must be. He forgets words less often, and shows more frustration when he can’t recall them. He expresses a desire to exercise—Wade really enjoys going on runs with him—and sleeps less. He tears through the Harry Potter series and starts helping Wade plan meals and trips to the grocery store. And he certainly starts making real moves on Wade.

Wade is hard as a rock, and he knows Peter knows this because his bare foot is pressed into his crotch just enough to tease him. But he can’t react because any reaction he could possibly have would only encourage him, so he stares unseeingly at page 83 of _The Martian_ , his whole body tense as Peter “innocently” taps his foot. This is how pretty much all their down time had gone, even though Wade had successfully convinced him that Wade should sleep on the couch and Peter in the bed. 

Then he makes a mistake, looking over his book and his reading glasses at his roommate/love of his life. They make eye contact. Peter is smirking at him over his own book, squinting just a little to see Wade better, to read his face. For a moment there is only tension and fire, then Peter calmly marks his page—he is on the Half-Blooded Prince—and draws his knees up under himself. Wade lets his book fall into his lap, his fingers clutched right around it, and Peter is crawling up his body, settling his weight on Wade’s chest. Wade squeezes his eyes shut tight, mumbling, “Baby boy, you know we can’t—”

Peter kisses him, sweet and chaste, his hands coming up to cup Wade’s cheeks. Wade’s resolve cracks, and he wrenches his hands out from under Peter, crushing his lithe body to his own bulk, his knees coming up to cradle the form between his legs. The book is probably hurting Peter’s stomach, but Wade can’t bring himself to care, moving his lips against Peter’s for a blissful moment. They part, and Wade licks his lips. Peter tastes just how he smells, and it is so lovely Wade could cry. 

“Why can’t we?” Peter whispers. His eyes are so big, so blue, so close that Wade thinks he has already drowned. 

“You don’t even know who you are,” Wade whispers back, pain entering his eyes. 

Peter huffs. “I know who you are, and I want you.”

Wade groans. “Baby boy, that isn’t enough. What if you regret it when you get your memories back?”

Those beautiful blue eyes flash with anger. “Wade—”

But he’s cut off by something vibrating between them. Wade digs a hands between their bodies, into his pocket, and pulls out his phone. A wave of guilt hits him as he sees the caller ID. Stark.

“I have to take this,” he tells Peter, gently pushing him back. There is hurt in his eyes. “I’m sorry, baby boy.”

Wade walks away into the kitchen and flips the phone open, putting it up to his ear. He takes a deep breath, checking his tone before he answers. “Stark.”

“Wilson. We’ve got the guy. Can you come in, and bring Peter?”

Well. That certainly changes things. “Wow. Yeah. Send Happy?”

“Sure. You got 20 minutes, kid.”

He turns to find Peter standing in the doorway, still looking stormy. “Hey, baby boy,” Wade tries. “That was your doctor. He needs you to come in.”

“You said Stark, I heard you.”

Wade’s stomach drops. “No, baby boy—”

Peter bristles. “I _heard you_ , Wade.”

Wade looks at him, helpless. He catches it when Peter’s eyes dart between Wade and the front door, and when Peter dashes for it, Wade is ready, arms suddenly full of a kicking and screaming little Spider. _Thank fuck he isn’t using his real strength_ , he thinks—the blows hurt but only barely. Wade shifts the boy over his shoulder, pinning Peter’s knees to his chest with one arm. The boy is still hurling curses at him, and every word—every little fist pounding against his back—breaks his heart again. But Wade has always been a soldier. He swallows his emotions, clenches his jaw, picks up his keys and heads out the door. It’s almost comical, Peter sobbing and beating on his back, calling him a monster as they stand in the elevator, Wade trying to calm him down.

“Stark is your friend, baby boy,” he insists, begging. 

Peter shrieks. “No he isn’t, and neither are you!”

Harsh. 

Happy is out of the car and in Wade’s face in seconds, murder in his eyes. Wade shouts to be heard over Peter. “He’s throwing a tantrum because he realized he’s going to Stark!” he explains, aware that they are garnering quite a bit of negative attention as they stand on the sidewalk. “Help me get him into the car!”

Wade turns and opens the back door. Peter must see Happy, because he wails, “Happy Peter is in on it, too?!?” And despite himself, despite the seriousness of the situation, Wade can’t help but smile at that. 

...

The car ride to Stark Tower is an ordeal. Wade ends up half on top of Peter, holding the smaller’s legs between his own, holding his wrists together in one hand. Peter cries the whole way, sobbing so hard he chokes and coughs, yelling “I hate you, I hate you!” at Wade. Wade can vaguely hear Happy on the phone with Stark, trying to explain the situation.

They’re greeted by the jolly iron giant himself in the car park, fully suited in one of his sleeker designs. He stands near the car, watching the chaos with an expressionless metal mask. Wade loosens his grip on Peter and throws open the door—and Peter, damn him, crawls over Wade and jumps out, looking around wildly. Stark raises his arm and a high pitched whine echoes around the garage as a light discharges from his palm. Peter slumps to the ground; Wade yells out, rushing over to pick him up.

He’s breathing. Thank fuck. “What the actual fuck, Stark?”

The mask raises, revealing Stark’s drawn, pale face. “It’s a stunner,” he says. “He’ll be fine. Get him upstairs, Happy. We’ll be in Lab 12 again. Wilson, call May and meet me up there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you there was a plot.


	9. Of Spiders and Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one!

Wade paces around in the lobby near the front door as he waits for May. It is a long time before she arrives, and he is nearly crawling out of his skin with the need to take any kind of action by the time she gets there. “Aunt May,” he breathes upon seeing her. They both need a hug, and Aunt May picks up on that and gives him one. He hugs her back gently, and she pats his back. 

 

“How is he?” she asks as they wait for the elevator.

“Better, I think, ma’am. Sassier, more energetic, less clingy. He gets frustrated when he can’t remember things, though.”

The elevator dings and they step inside. “That sounds like him,” May confirms, smiling a little through her stress. “Do you know what’s going on, Wade?” Wade briefly explains up until Stark’s action against Peter. “So you don’t know who had him?”

Wade shakes his head. “No ma’am, I’m afraid not. I think Stark will tell us, though.”

Aunt May runs her fingers through her hair, and her lower lip wobbles. “I miss him so much,” she whispers, and takes Wade’s arm, leaning against him for support. 

Something finally connects for Wade. “Aunt May, do you like onions?”

May giggles with a bit of hysteria at the question. “I don’t. Why on earth are you asking?”

“Something Peter said a while back,” he says, leading her towards where he thinks Lab 12 is. “I just get the feeling that the old Peter is right below the surface, you know?”

May doesn’t get the chance to respond, as they come upon the lab where Banner and Stark—now in civilian dress again—are working together on Peter, who is still unconscious. The wall to the left is absolutely covered by a projection of notes, sketches, and diagrams—many depicting the human brain, some seeming to be imagery of Peter’s brain in particular. May gasps at the sight of him, small and unconscious, strapped to an exam table with an IV in his arm. He looks even smaller than usual like that. 

“My baby,” she says weakly. 

Wade raps on the glass, catching Stark’s attention. They watch him approach the door, and May greets him as it’s thrown open. “May,” he says, taking her hand and holding on to it. “I’m so glad you’re here. Listen, we got the guy. It was this psychologist over at NYU—Danvers was his name—he’s dead now, but we have all of his notes on Peter. I think we can fix him.”

There’s more, but Wade is moving towards the boy, ignoring Banner’s sigh of irritation at an intruder in the room. He stands at the bed, looking down at the boy who has become his best friend. He leans down and kisses him on the forehead, then looks up at Stark and May, catching their eyes and flushing just a little. May’s voice is loud—and since Wade left the door open behind him, he catches what she says to Stark. “I knew it, Tony. You’ve just got to see Wade instead of Deadpool.”

Tony rounds on her, throwing his hands up into the air. “So you _did_ know who he was!”

...

“He’s starting to wake up,” Banner says quite a while later. Wade looks up from his quiet conversation with May and takes Peter’s hand gently, eyeing his wrist restraints dubiously. They definitely could not hold the Spider-Man.

“That’s my cue,” Stark groans, stretching. “Look, Bruce, I think this is brilliant, I think it could work. I’ve got a guy I can call to try to make it happen. I’ll be back.”

He leaves with very little time to spare—the hand in Wade’s is twitching before the door shuts, and not long after, the blue eyes blink halfway open, squinting myopically around the lab. His eyes find Wade. “Am I in Stark Tower?”

Wade nods, wordless. Peter shuts his eyes for a few moments, then opens them again. “Will you keep me safe from him, Wade?”

Wade melts a little in his relief that his spider still trusts him after all. “Of course, baby boy.”

Banner clears his throat. “Hi, Peter, do you remember me?”

Peter turns his head slowly, squinting at Banner. “You’re my new doctor,” he says slowly. “But you work for Tony Stark, and he is a bad man. And my name isn’t Peter.”

Banner sighs. “Alright, then. This might cause you some distress, but I’m going to tell you some things and I need you to trust me. Everyone in this room knew you before you lost your memories.”

Peter’s head whips around to fix Wade with a wounded look, and Wade quickly holds up his hands. “I _barely_ knew you,” he clarifies. “We’d never had a real conversation before, and I didn’t know your real name. We were... coworkers.”

Banner continues. “Please trust me, Peter, I’ve known you for a few years and I care about you. Your name is Peter Parker. You’re a hero, like me, and your hero name is Spider-Man. Tony Stark is your mentor. That’s your Aunt May. You graduated from Midtown High School, your best friend is Ned Leeds, and you study bioengineering and biophysics as the only student of Stark Industries University—”

By this point, Peter is shaking his head, eyes shut. “I don’t believe you. How could I believe you when you work for that evil man?”

“Tony isn’t evil, Peter,” Banner insists softly. “He loves you.” 

“I will never believe you,” Peter says resolutely. “Not unless I get my memories back and find out for myself it’s true.”

“Peter, baby,” May breaks in. “Will you please let Dr. Banner try to get your memories back?”

Peter’s response surprises Wade. “Can I talk to Wade alone, please?”

The other two acquiesce, looking a bit surprised themselves, stepping out to leave Wade alone with Peter. He stands and steps close, brushing some hair out of Peter’s eyes. “Do you trust them?” Peter asks first. Wade nods. “Do you love me?”

Wade shuts his eyes, listens to his own heartbeat, opens them and whispers. “Yes, I do.”

“Did you love me before this?”

Wade narrows his eyes a little. “I liked you,” he admits. “I had a crush on you.”

“Did I like you?”

“... No, you didn’t.”

“Then I don’t want my memories back.”

This throws Wade for a loop. “What? Why?”

“I don’t want to be someone who doesn’t love you, Wade.”

Wade can’t help himself—he pushes his arms under the bound boy’s back, leaning over him to hug him tightly. “Oh, baby boy, you didn’t know the real me back then. You only knew Deadpool.” Peter mumbles something into Wade’s chest that he interprets to loosely be _who is Deadpool?_  “I’m a hero, too, baby. Sort of. An antihero, I think it’s called. My super power is cancer.” Wade laughs breathlessly at his own joke. “I’m immortal, I can’t die. I make a living as a mercenary.”

Peter stiffens. Wade pulls back, ready for the other shoe to drop. “You kill people?”

“... Yes, baby boy. I kill people.”

“... Are they always bad people?”

Wade grimaces. “Almost all of them are the scum of the earth.”

Peter is crying. “I still love you,” he says. “Do you want me to have my memories back?”

Wade doesn’t hesitate to answer. “Of course, baby. You deserve the love of the other people in your life. You deserve so much more love than any one person could give.”

Banner bustles back in at this point, clearing his throat loudly. Peter squints tearfully at him. “Can you fix me?”

Banner hesitates. “I think so.”

...

Things happened very quickly after that. Wade was rushed out as doctors—the M.D. kind—were rushed in. His fingers tingle where they’d been pulled from Peter’s. “Medically induced coma?” he demands to the first familiar face he finds—that of May, who looks distraught. 

She nods, looking harried. “Yes, Tony says it has to be right now—something about moon phases? I think they’re bringing in another super hero to fix him. A girl who can walk in people’s dreams. Tony Stark personally guaranteed me that he would be safe.” Her soft brown eyes meet Wade’s, and he’s suddenly not sure who she’s trying to reassure—herself or him. “He promised me that Peter would be fine.”

Wade turns and looks through the window, just in time to see the needle go in, Peter’s eyes shutter and his face slacken. He itches all over but he can do nothing but let May step under his arm and wrap an arm around his waist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ends the first arc! 
> 
> I think it’ll be mostly in Peter’s POV from now on.


	10. Spider’s Adventures in Wonderland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the first thing I wrote for this story. I hope you like it.

It seems to happen suddenly. He becomes aware of himself, of his body, his pulse, the expansion and deflation of his lungs. Eyes closed, he runs the nail of his left pointer finger over the pad of his thumb, and he can feel every ridge. When his eyes open, he can sense the way they catch and reflect light, sparkling, and the way his eyelashes come untangled from each other, as though he’d been asleep for so long they’d grown together.

He sees her. She is strange—dark skin, silver hair, hot pink shorts and diamonds tattooed under her eyes. “Who are you?” he asks, feeling his lips peel apart, the texture of his own tongue as he speaks.

She shakes her head, and he feels like the world is spinning around him. “The question is, who are you?”

Fear pools in his stomach and he turns on his heel, certain there is something behind him in the blank expanse of their environment. There is. Against the whiteness, two young men about his size. The first has wild, curly brown hair and stunning blue eyes in a beautiful but nervous, lonely face. The second holds himself with a sense of power and confidence, and he wears a red and blue suit. He is afraid of them.

“Who are _you_?” the girl repeats, just behind him. He turns enough to glance over his shoulder, but she’s gone. 

“I’m...” he gropes for the right answer, for who and what and where he had been before. Wade’s face swims before his mind’s eye. “I’m Baby Boy.”

“ _No, you aren’t._ ” He whips around again, certain she is just behind him, and sees that there is now a third boy, with precisely the same features as the first but smiling sweetly, shoulders lax, hair wild. He turns, slowly, horrified, staring at the three figures who all have their eyes on him, frozen in animation. He looks down and finds that he is naked. He blinks, and when his eyes open again, he can’t feel his body any longer. 

He looks up to find that the newest arrival is moving. It is silent and unearthly, and as it moves, the world melts into being around it. It scares him, seeming less human in motion, and he turns his back on it to find the others in silent motion as well, gliding, fading into the worlds that paint in around them as they are puppeteered by some unseen force into their scenes. He screams, eyes shut, a throbbing pain in his being. 

“Open your eyes, Peter.”

He opens them, knowing she means him but not sure who Peter is, just that whoever he is, he’s important. There is movement to his right and he flinches, but it’s just the girl from before. She hands him something—it is a box the size of a cigarette lighter and it is featureless, colorless, and weightless. He is not sure how he knows it exists. When he touches it, a strong emotion floods through him that makes him turn to face the first figure, who is once again frozen in animation. His name is Peter and he sits at a dinner table with pasta on a chipped plate in front of him and an older woman standing behind him, laughing, leaning down to kiss him on the head. But Peter is staring silent and still at him. He tries to ignore him, his eyes on the woman’s face, the smell of clean clothes and citrus in his nose. “Aunt May,” he croaks.

The girl pushes another box into his hand and it joins him. She wheels him around by the shoulders to face the suited figure, who has joined his own scene, one which melts with confusing lines into the previous and the next. He is Spider-Man, crouched on a workbench in an achingly familiar lab, in front of an older man with a salt-and-pepper goatee framing a cocky grin. The man—Mr. Stark, his heart cries—is looking at Spider-Man, but Spider-Man’s head is turned at an unnatural angle to look into his eyes and he wants to scream.

The girl turns him again and stands with him as he stares, confused, at the final scene, which bleeds into the first at the left and the second at the right. The sweetly smiling boy—Baby Boy, that is his name—is curled up in the arms of a hulking man, unfamiliar and covered in scar tissue, who is staring down with love at the boy. This figure stares at him too, still smiling sweetly. “Who are you?” the girl asks again.

“I don’t know,” he says. He’s forgotten. What did he say the last time she asked? She hands him another tiny box. He takes it, and his head snaps up to look at the scarred man. Wade. How does he know him? His chest aches. 

He looks at the girl, lost. She is looking around, interested. “Three,” she says, sounding impressed. She is holding a box that he can’t look directly at. It’s largish and black, or maybe it isn’t. Then he and the girl are looking at each other and she has no eyes. “This is the pain. It’ll help you remember.”

She doesn’t move to hand this box to him, so he takes it. The moment his nonexistent hands brush its surface, he is screaming, each cell in apoptosis, his mind shredded to ribbons and cauterized together. He burns, his flesh dripping from his melting bones, and then it all stops and he sits up.

He feels very cold and very calm. He looks around, making eye contact with the three figures in turn. “I’m them,” he says. He feels the girl’s encouragement, though he cannot see or hear her. “They’re me.”

He stands. He walks to the first boy, his eyes on Aunt May, the woman he knows he is supposed to love. The figure extends his hand and Peter takes it. The figure dissolves and the scene swirls away, and Peter, just Peter, is left looking at his hands.

Peter turns and sets his eyes on the Spider-Man, called to it, called to Mr. Stark. Joy wells in him as he approaches, and he meets the outstretched hand halfway because Peter Parker was always Spider-Man. He shuts his eyes, smelling oil and disinfectant and Mr. Stark’s signature, expensive and eccentric scent as the scene fades away. Then he turns. 

Is Peter really that, too? Can Peter be a precious person to someone like Wade? Can Spider-Man be someone’s beloved pet? Baby Boy nods, beckons Peter. Peter approaches, looks down at the peaceful couple, and lets himself fall. 


	11. The Tale of Two Spiders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exposition heavy. Sorry not sorry?

Peter wakes suddenly, fully conscious with his eyes still closed, body still, breathing steady. He can smell _everything_. Disinfectant, hair spray, rubber, latex, blood, ammonia, flowers, sandalwood, vanilla, his own breath. His brows pinch together. He needs a toothbrush. Slowly, the onslaught of smells becomes cohesive, but he can’t tell over the similar onslaught of sound. Shuffling, talking, beeping, hearts beating and stomachs gurgling—he’d forgotten how loud people are. He hears tapping feet very close and cars honking very far away. As he starts working on clearing through the excess noise, he is able to focus on the discomfort in all of his joints, like he had been cramped in too small a cage for a long time, and on the messages his nose gives him when he draws in another deep breath.

Citrus, soap, hair spray, the chalky smell of cosmetics, the oily smell of lipstick. That’s Aunt May. His soul is filled with longing. He opens his eyes, taking in everything, each speck of dust in the air. He turns his head, causing a lot of talking to be directed at him. Then he sees her. He lifts his wrist, feeling a bit of resistance for a moment and then hearing a crack, and holds his hands out to her, gaze fixated on her warm caramel eyes. In the next moment, she is in his arms, lying on his chest and crying into his hospital gown. This time he is aware that his wrist had been bound before he breaks the second restraint to hold her. She’s talking to him, but he still can’t here her over the traffic noises, the chaos in the room, his own heart beat. It’s becoming easier, though.

“I missed you,” he says, stroking her hair. “I missed you, Aunt May.”

She backs away, cheeks wet, eyes bright with joy. Peter isn’t sure why, but then another figure enters his range of vision. “Mr. Stark!” Peter grins widely, holding out his hand to shake his mentor’s. “Thank you, Mr. Stark.”

To his surprise, Mr. Stark grabs his hand only to use it to pull Peter into a tight hug. It’s brief and smells like sweat, BO, and alcohol, and it does more to communicate how worried Mr. Stark had been than anything else could have. He’s suddenly being helped to lay back, and he looks over to find Dr. Banner smiling tiredly at him, asking him questions. Peter doesn’t answer him because he can’t parse out what he’s being asked, so he just smiles and pats Dr. Banner on the hand. 

His eyes shut for a moment, nearly exhausted by the flood of emotion and stimulus, but his mind has chosen one sound to focus on. A heart beat, a little too fast, but very steady. Peter feels connected to it, is it his? It isn’t, when he tries, he can hear his own heartbeat beneath this one. He opens his eyes again and sees Wade. Oh. Right. _Wade._

Peter’s cheeks flush brilliantly, prompting concern from Dr. Banner, who starts asking his questions with more force. Wade quirks his lips at Peter in a stupid, goofy smile, and Peter’s heart stutters as he smiles back. Then he can hear Wade’s heart start beating faster, too. Wade gives him a little two finger wave, obviously realizing first that Peter can’t hear, and Peter can feel his blush creeping down his neck as he waves back. 

Wade turns and says something—the sweet sound of Peter’s name on Wade’s lips looms out of the din. There is another beat of conversation, then May is approaching him. She closes his eyes with her cool fingers, then lays her hand on his forehead like when he was sick as a boy. The message is clear. _Sleep_. So he does.

...

When Peter wakes again, his senses are much better under his control again, those his joints still ache. He sits up—he’s in a proper bed this time—or maybe “large cot” would be more accurate, though he’s still in the lab, with most of the lights off. The first thing he does is stretch. He arches his back until a normal spine would have snapped, then folds his body in half with his stomach against his thighs—like a toe touch that extends well past his toes. Then he works on over-extending the rest of his joints, until none of them are screaming with the need to be used properly. 

A voice comes over the intercom—Mr. Stark’s. “Kid, I’ve got to tell you, that looks like something from the exorcist when you see it on a monitor in the middle of the night.” Peter laughs at that. “I’ll be down in a bit with Dr. Banner.”

They really are there pretty quickly after that. Mr. Stark looks much better than the last time Peter saw him—more rested, cleaner, and he’d shaved away the beard back down to a neat goatee. Dr. Banner looks like he’d caught a nap as well, though his characteristic exhaustion is still present. They pull chairs up to the cot, insisting that Peter stay in bed, though they allow him to sit up. “Tell me everything, kid,” Mr. Stark implores him. “What do you remember?”

“Well, it started with this old man in a wheel chair. I was helping him get his wheel out of a hole in the sidewalk, and he suddenly slapped me on the leg. After that...” Peter swallows, but the act of debriefing after a stressful mission is familiar, and he uses that to focus and continue. “Not much, really. A lot of pain and stress and fear. But mostly pain. I’m sorry, Mr. Stark, that isn’t very helpful, is it?”

Mr. Stark pats him on the leg. “You’re doing fine. What else?”

“Well, when I woke up, I was confused and dizzy, and there was a stranger in a red suit there. He said his name was Wade. I didn’t understand that I was wearing a mask, or how to take it off, he had to help me. Then I remember staying with Wade, going to the “doctor”—” He glances over at Dr. Banner, amused. “—Then more time with Wade until he got a call about bringing me here. Every time I heard the word Stark, I felt like I was being dangled off of a cliff, over icy water and sharp rocks. There was so much dread, and I thought that you must be so terrible that even though I’d forgotten everything, I still remembered how evil you were. I think I even thought you were the one that stole my memories. I’m sorry, Mr. Stark, that’s all so disrespectful.”

Mr. Stark waves this off impatiently. “No, kid, it’s fine, I get it.”

Peter groans, letting his head fall back a little. “I can’t believe you allowed Deadpool, Wade Wilson, the Merc with a Mouth, take care of me for two weeks.” Peter shakes his head. “No, wait. I can’t believe that the man who took care of me for the last two weeks is also Deadpool. I can’t believe—I can’t—I didn’t even know I was gay.”

Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner both look vaguely uncomfortable at this, and Peter winces. “I’m sorry, I’m having a hard time filtering myself right now,” he mumbles. 

Dr. Banner flicks his hand in dismissal. “No, it’s fine, Peter. Steve might be a better person to discuss your sexuality with, but we are both committed to you as a junior Avenger and as our student. And,” he clears his throat, “Our friend, of course. And right now, I’m your doctor. So speak freely.”

Mr. Stark breaks in. “Before we continue, I need to know, Peter. Did Wade do anything... untoward to you?”

Peter blushes brilliantly, shaking his head quickly. “No, no,” he denies. Mr. Stark looks dubious, so he continues. “Even when I, ah, propositioned him, he kept an appropriate distance.”

Mr. Stark sits back in his chair. “I’m... glad. Shocked and confused, but glad.”

“He’s a good guy,” Peter finds himself saying, surprising himself. “Wade Wilson is a good man. You just fell for him pretending to be an unlikeable, blood-lusting pervert.”

Mr. Stark’s eyes clearly say, _Kid, he_ is _an unlikeable, blood-lusting pervert_ , but he doesn’t say anything. Dr. Banner starts in on his line of questioning then. First, how does he feel; how he is able to control his powers—not great at moderating his strength or stickiness (his hands keep sticking to his hair and his sheets), but almost back to normal with his senses; a lot of questions that can be summarized with, _yes, Dr. Banner, I feel fine, I’m not dizzy._

Then Dr. Banner guiltily hits him with, “Peter, I’d be honored to write a letter to the American Journal of Mutant Psychology about you. Totally anonymous, of course. Would that be acceptable?”

Peter hesitates, but acquiesces, figuring he owes the good doctor at least that. The questions start to require a bit more thought, and Dr. Banner records his responses with his StarkPhone. 

“Wilson mentioned a few times that you forgot certain words. Do you remember any of these words, and do you see any connection between them?”

Peter considers this. “I forgot a lot of words,” he admits. “Book, pet, friend, school, pancakes, coffee—oh fuck,” Peter groans. “I think I’ve lost my job.”

Stark waves that off. “We told your boss—and Ned, who is excited to see you, by the way—that you were abroad. I’ll explain in a minute. Ned figured it was something to do with Spider-Man, but your boss has excused you. You should be able to start work again soon.”

Peter thinks for a moment about his forgotten vocabulary. “Those are all pretty emotional words to me,” he says finally. “Things I want, or really like, or are part of my identity, or that I have fond memories of. Like, take pancakes for example. Aunt May makes them for my birthday every year, and sometimes when I bring home a particularly good report card.”

Mr. Stark grins at that. “I’ll be sure your next transcription contains a glowing note about how well you work with your classmates next quarter.” Peter rolls his eyes. 

“Did you ever remember anything during your time without your memories? Hints, dreams, anything?”

This is an easier question. “Sometimes I would have a random word association and remember how something related to this vague female... I don’t know, _idea_. It was Aunt May, obviously, but sometimes I’d look at something and think, _she would like that_ , or, _she would think that was funny_ , and I wouldn’t know who ‘she’ was.” 

Banner makes a noise in his throat. “It would be very hard to forget your mother completely. The only person you had more than a passing interaction with both before and after your memory loss is Wilson. Are you having trouble thinking about those memories together?”

Peter hesitates. “Sort of? ... But I didn’t really interact with _Wade_ before I lost my memory, and I didn’t really interact with _Deadpool_ after. That may not be a good sample for your paper,” he concludes apologetically. 

“The data is what the—”

"What the data is, yeah, I know, professor.” Peter and Dr. Banner share a grin.

Dr. Banner asks him a few other questions about his emotions, reactions, sensations, memories. Peter eventually remembers his dream. “I think I dreamt about swinging through New York,” he confides. “I miss it. When can I go back on patrol? Where is my suit, anyway?”

Stark winces. “Look, kid, about that—”

“Mr. Stark, don’t try to tell me it’s too dangerous to go back on patrol just because we don’t know who did this—”

Mr. Stark holds up a hand in a plea for Peter to be quiet. “We do know who did it. He’s dead.” Stark briefly explains what had happened, not looking Peter in the eye as he does so, and finishes with a stiff, “I’m sorry.”

Peter shakes his head. “Aw, Mr. Stark, it’s not your fault at all. I should have been more careful.” Neither of them press the issue, both knowing the other won’t be persuaded to view the situation differently. 

“Anyway, kid, your old suit—it’s toast. Every bit of tech, all the conducting fibers, the wiring, the plating, it’s all completely dead. Like it got hit with a solar flare, or blown out with a fuckload of electricity or a stupidly strong magnet. I’ve got to start over from scratch. Luckily, though, I’d already been working on something—”

“Mr. Stark, I thought we agreed that I shouldn’t rebrand as the Iron Spider—”

“While I still disagree, Peter, that’s not what I meant.” Stark looks very amused. “Just a general upgrade. Your healing factor is pretty good, but you’re still not very invulnerable to sharp things like you are to punches, so that will be changed. No more drugged needles to the thigh for Spider-Kid. Oh, and a redesign, of course. If you’re wearing my tech, it needs to be fashionable.”

Peter rolls his eyes at this. The “redesigned” suits always look suspiciously similar to their predecessor, though Stark insists tweaks are made to pattern and color. “How far out is it?”

Mr. Stark raises his eyebrows, thinking. “A week, I think, until it’s battle ready. Don’t look at me like that, I’ve been a bit busy with other things. Speaking of the Spider-Man—” Mr. Stark taps his watch a few times, and suddenly the projector whirs to life, and Peter is stunned to be faced with a wall full of news articles about himself. _WHERE IS THE SPIDER-MAN?_  says one. _SPIDER-MAN PRESUMED INJURED OR DEAD_ says another. “The media ended up settling on the idea that you were sick, and ever since, Stark Tower has been receiving several dozen get-well cards and flower arrangements every day.” He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a bulging manila envelope. “Here are some we got last week.”

Peter opens the envelope and starts looking through the papers inside. Many of them are hand-made cards in crayon and marker, obviously made by children; others are handwritten in lacy ink by old women, some are printed, some are just signed get-well cards. Many of them are also thank-you notes, some generally thanking him for his service and some thanking him for particular acts. One says “Thank you for saving my Uncle from an mugger last year. Love, James” in green crayon. 

Peter feels tears stinging his eyes and is grateful when Mr. Stark continues speaking. “There’s been no official word on your whereabouts. Pepper and I have decided that—if you feel ready, anyway—we’d like you to record a brief interview in the prototype costume before you leave.” Peter nods, watching Mr. Stark check his phone briefly before going on to say, “So, the very important question that you aren’t asking because of your stubborn refusal to view yourself as important as you are, is, what does the media think happened to Peter Parker, the sweetheart and heir of Stark Industries?”

“Heir? Mr. Stark—”

The older man cuts him off cleanly. “Peter Parker has been on a mission trip to Rwanda this whole time, with your internship-mandatory Instagram feed very active.” Mr. Stark turns his phone around to show Peter pictures of himself posing with Rwandan villagers, working in a nursing hut, taking a selfie with a cute toddler that the caption claims Peter had just helped vaccinate... it went on. “No one questioned the sudden disappearance, not even your boss. Everyone knows how unusual your higher education has been.” (This was an understatement—Peter was the first and only student to attend the micro-university Stark Industries, created because Stark was personally offended that Stanford rejected him based on his affiliation with Stark Industries. His schedule was erratic, often featuring guest professors who would teach him an entire course on biomechanics or such in four or five weeks, credits earned working as an assistant in the Stark and Banner labs, and occasional transfer credits in things like ethics and communications taken at real universities—“It’s a liberal arts education,” Mr. Stark had explained.)

“How did you..?”

Stark grinned. “A bit of an exchange program between Stark Industries University and the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning. They had a shapeshifter who wanted to go to Africa, and I had a need for a shapeshifter to go to an exotic location for a while. She’s on her way home, now, and extends her thanks to you for the opportunity, by the way. Sweet girl. The Xavier Institute is also how I found the dreamwalker who helped you a few days ago.”

Peter remembers the strange girl from his dream. “She was real?” he asks. Then, “Wait, how long was I asleep??”

“14 hours with Madison, the dreamwalker, and then about—” He checks his watch. “31 hours since you first woke up from that. I think your body needed to shut down for maintenance.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Peter says weakly. “Is that why Aunt May isn't..?”

Mr. Stark nods. “She’ll he so excited to find you home tomorrow morning when she gets up. I practically had to force her to go get a proper night’s sleep. We can probably get you home before 3am if you feel ready to suit up and do the interview.”

...

It’s really a miracle Wade sees the interview at all. It’s 9am, and he is 25% adrenaline at the least as he chases down the last target in the human trafficking case he’d been working. He drags the slime ball from his bedroom by his hair, just as Wade had seen him do to a poor Vietnamese girl in a recording that had been included in the background info on the case. He’s been following this trail for almost 12 hours, taking down one ring leader at a time, torturing each sick bastard to give up one of his friends, and releasing the women he found to the authorities. Anything so he doesn’t have to think about his baby boy. And he is killing bad guys, and that made him the good guy. Wade likes that. 

The TV is on with the volume low as ties the sick fuck to a kitchen chair, chattering away about safewords and kinbaku, when he hears the word _Spider-Man_. “Oh, they’re talking about my boyfriend on the news!” he tells the bound and gagged man, grabbing the back of the chair and dragging him over into the living room. “Let’s see what they’re saying.”

To his surprise, the headline says, “INTERVIEW WITH THE MISSING HERO SPIDER-MAN,” and there he is, in his costume, explaining that he had been sick.

“Thank you so much for all of your well-wishes,” he’s saying. “The letters and flowers mean so much to me. I’m not going to be back on the street quite yet, but I wanted to let New York City know that they are still my people, that I will be back to protecting them soon, and that any criminals need to know that I haven’t forgotten about them.” The voice is rich, beautiful. His baby’s voice, but confident.

“God he’s so fucking hot,” he tells the struggling, sobbing middle aged man sitting next to him. “I’m gonna get up. In. That. If you know what I mean. Gonna flip him over and we’ll go ball to ball when I plow that ass. Do you think he’ll let me do him while we’re both in costume? It’ll be like having two boyfriends. Of course, you wouldn’t know anything about the joys of a respectful relationship and consensual sex.” Then the man’s throat is slit, and Wade continues narrating his thoughts to the dying man as Spider-Man answers some questions about his mysterious illness and closes out the interview.

“See you soon, New York!” he finishes.

“See you soon, baby boy.”


	12. The Importance of Being a Spider

Peter wakes to the smell of pancakes. For a moment, he stays in his cocoon of blankets, thinking, _Wade will bring me some when they’re done_ , but the smell of the sheets is wrong and he can hear May laughing in the kitchen. He smiles. _Home._

He gets up, pushing his hair out of his eyes, and heads towards the kitchen, tuning into Aunt May’s voice. _Sounds like she’s on the phone_ , he thinks. When he walks into the kitchen, she’s saying. “Uh huh. Uh huh. Okay, that sounds great!” She turns and sees Peter, and her eyes and voice grow somehow even warmer and more maternal. “Here he is now. Do you want to talk to him? ... Okay, sounds good. See you soon! Uh huh, buh-bye!” 

They embrace, and Peter rocks them back and forth, his face buried in her hair at the top of her head, her happy tears wetting the front of his shirt. “Oh, Peter, waking up this morning and seeing your shoes in the hall, seeing you asleep in your bed...” 

He nods into her hair, wordless with his joy to be home. Neither of them are ready to let go, so he keeps holding her as he asks, “Aunt May, who was that on the phone?”

“A new friend of mine,” she says. “How are you, Peter?”

“Better now.” 

The pancakes are perfect. Aunt May insists on fixing them for him like when he was a kid, and gives them to him with Nutella, fresh banana, and a dollop of whip cream, with a glass of milk on the side. They catch up, laughing and talking for nearly an hour. May tells Peter about her raise, in particular, encouraging him in the same sentence to cut back on his hours at The Chipped Mug, the coffee shop he works at. “Tony said you can go back to patrolling in about a week, and that school will start back up in two, but you can start back to your job whenever you want.”

Peter would like to get straight back to everything, but he understands why he shouldn’t. “I think I’ll call in and try to get on the schedule ASAP. Uh... what day of the week is it?”

“Thursday, dear.”

“Right. Do you have work?”

“Only a for a while, today, 12-6. I’ll have to go here in a bit. Oh, I gave Wade your phone number, by the way. Your phone is on your desk, I plugged it in for you.”

Peter colors at the mention of Wade. “Oh.”

May seems not to register his reaction. “I think it’s so great you have a boyfriend, Peter, I’ve always been so worried about you being lonely, and you never came out like I thought you would—”

Emotions curl in Peter’s stomach, making him a little nauseous. “He’s not my boyfriend,” Peter says, and is instantly unsure if that is true. “I didn’t... I’m not even sure if I’m gay, Aunt May.”

“Can you think of a woman you’ve been attracted to in the last two years?” she asks evenly.

“Well, no, but—”

“Can you think of a man you’ve been attracted to in the last two years?” They stare at each other, and Peter nods, sullen. May smiles. “And do you recall that you had glamour shot posters of Tony in your bedroom from age 8 to age 15?” Peter blushes brilliantly. “Or the time you told your male theater teacher you wanted to marry him when you grew up?”

“I was _five_!” Peter squeaks. 

“And Mr. Matthews was hot.” May shrugs. “You’ve always had good taste in men, sweetie.” Peter sits back, looking down into his empty glass of milk. So he's gay then. May made it seem so simple. “Wade is a good boy,” she continues. “You could do a lot worse.”

Peter sighs. “May, I don’t even know if I’ll... feel the same. I haven’t really seen him since I woke up. And I _just_ woke up.” His time with Wade felt like a dream, a fairy-tale. Would he feel the same way if he sees Wade now?

May moves to start cleaning up the kitchen, and Peter jumps to his feet. “Oh, no, Aunt May. Please let me. Thank you so much for breakfast.” He kisses her on the cheek. “Go get ready for work, I’m going to call my boss and then I might go for a run.”

Aunt May _tuts_ at him. “You most certainly will not. You can do yoga and go back to sleep if you _must_ exercise. Why don’t you call Wade?”

Peter doesn’t answer her for a moment. “I’ll think about it,” he evades. “But first, I think I smell bad. Do you need in the bathroom to get ready?” She shakes her head, and Peter trots off to go take a long, warm shower and think.

...

Wade: HEY BBY BOY I MISS U

Peter: WADE?

Wade: WHO ELSE CALLS U BBY BOY?

Wade: I’LL KILL THEM

Peter: I THINK I MISS YOU, TOO.

Peter: THAT CAME OUT WRONG.

Peter: I’M JUST REALLY HAPPY TO BE HOME.

Wade: I UNDERSTAND HOW ARE U????

Peter: I COULD RUN A MARATHON. HOW ARE YOU?

Wade: I WOULD WALK 500 MILES AND I WOULD WALK 500 MORE

Wade: IM GOOD BBY BOY JUST LONELY CRICKET ISNT AS CUTE OR AS FUNNY AS U

Wade: WHEN CAN I TAKE YOU ON A REAL DATE?

Peter: I DON’T KNOW, I NEED TO SPEND TIME WITH AUNT MAY AND REST.

...

Wade: PETER SEEMS DISTANT SHOULD I BACK OFF?

May: OH NO DEAR

May: COME OVER FOR DINNER TONIGHT @6:30

Wade: REALLY???? THANK YOU SHOULD I BRING ANYTHING 

May: JUST YOURSELF

Wade: YES MAAM

...

Wade: SEE YOU SOON BBY

Peter: OKAY WADE. BE GOOD.

Wade: ONLY IF YOU’LL BE BAD FOR ME ;)

...

Wade: MY PLACE IN 10 MINUTES EMERGENCY

Weasel: WHAT KIND OF EMERGENCY?

Wade: FUCK YOU WEAS THE URGENT KIND

...

“This is not anywhere goddamn near an emergency, blender face.”

Wade is pacing around his bedroom in his MLP: Friendship is Magic boxers. The bed is absolutely covered in clothing of all kinds. “C’mon, Weasel, you’re supposed to be my best friend, help a guy out. I need a date outfit.”

Weasel looks down at his own ratty clothing in disbelief. “Do I look like a fashion expert to you?”

Wade rolls his eyes. “No, and you don’t look like you’ve ever gone on a date, either, but you’re all I’ve got. So give me ideas. Do I go right and sexy? Or dressy? Something in between, maybe? I really only have my old blues for formal wear. I bet Aunt May would dig it, though.”

Weasel looks like he is in an unfathomable amount of pain, but he had also just cashed his portion of the fat check Wade had earned murdering traffickers all night, so he scrubs his hands over his face, mumbling, “I don’t even think I like you.” Then, louder, “Why don’t you go button-down and nice jeans? And, uh, bring roses for Spider-Twink. And wear a mask so they can actually eat without vomiting.”

“Love you too, fuckface. I don’t own any button downs right now. What color should I look for when I go shopping? Do I need a tie? A bowtie?” Wade is pulling on a pair of jeans he found in the back of the closet that are barely worn. 

“I don’t know, Wade.” Weasel plucks at the first thing that comes to mind. “Black. No. Dark blue, black is too much. With white buttons. No tie, you’ll look like the douchebag that you are if you wear a tie. Do you want me to help you curl your hair?”

“I hate you so much, Weasel. I should have called Dopinder. Give me your shoes.”

Weasel looks down at his new grey leather loafers in surprise. “What? I just won these. And you’re like six inches taller than me.”

Wade groans in mock exasperation, withdraws his under-the-mattress katana and points it at Weasel. “We both know you have freakishly large feet, Weasel. Hand them over.”

The ratlike man sighs deeply and starts to push the shoes off with his feet. “Why are you trying to impress this kid, again? Haven’t you already been living together for two weeks?”

“That was before he got his memories back. Baby boy is already in love with me, I’ve just gotta court P—the real him now. With all the doubts and insecurities and social conditioning. he’s not even technically the one who invited me to dinner, he got his aunt to do it for him.” Wade is looking at himself critically the mirror. “Nothing to be done about the face, I guess.” Weasel snorts. “Fuck you, Weasel. You’re coming shopping with me.”

“You stole my fucking shoes!”

...

Peter keeps himself busy. He speaks with his boss on the phone to get himself scheduled for the upcoming workweek, then he speaks to Pepper’s secretary about what he’s doing when he gets back to earning credits from SIU, then he speaks to Pepper when she hears he’s up and about from her secretary. Then he goes grocery shopping for May after promising he’d only stay out for the shortest time possible. Then he talks to Ned for over an hour, mentioning Wade but not going into detail. Then he gets a text from Captain Rogers. HELLO SON. CAPTAIN ROGERS SPEAKING. DO YOU RECEIVE?

Peter grins down at his phone. He’s always loved the way that the Captain texts. “Yes, sir,” he mumbles as he types. “What... Do... you... need?” The response comes several minutes later. Peter imagines it took him that long to type is out. I WILL GET YOU FROM YOUR APARTMENT. TONY SAYS WE NEED TO TALK. CAPTAIN ROGERS.

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” he says aloud, starting to text the Captain back. He’s interrupted by a knock at the door, and he can sense that it’s him. He shuts his eyes for a long moment, then braces himself for a very awkward conversation.

A while later, after pleasantries and hugs have been exchanged, Captain Rogers and Bucky Barnes sit on Peter’s love seat (which groans dangerously under their combined weight), each looking uncomfortable with a mug of coffee in their hands. For his part, Bucky has barely said a word the entire visit thus far. “So, young man,” the Captain begins. “Tony says that you’ve recently realized that you’re gay.”

“Yes,” Peter responds stiffly. “But I don’t need to talk about it. I’m not like, emotional about it. Or confused.”

Captain Rogers nods seriously. “If you say so, Peter, but we should also discuss safety. Tony tells me that condoms are much improved in this time, and that there is a terrible disease called Human Immunodeficiency Virus—”

Peter cuts him off as politely as he can. “I know to be safe, Captain. Thank you. Really, I don’t need—”

The Captain cannot be dissuaded. “Peter, I understand you are seeing an older man, and I can’t say I approve of the age difference or the individual. You should takes steps to communicate your needs as the receptive partner, to avoid unnecessary pain or injury—”

Peter chokes on his coffee, sputtering. Bucky leans back and pinches the bridge of his nose, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. Peter’s face is blood red. “Captain Rogers! That isn’t—that is, I’m not—why would you even assume that _I’m_ going to bottom?”

Bucky snorts. Peter glares at him. Captain Rogers looks put out by Peter repeatedly interrupting him during what were clearly thought-out speeches. Silence expands between them. But the Captain cannot be steered away from his chosen path. 

Captain Rogers pulls out a bottle from his pocket and tosses it to Peter. It says Sliquid. Peter realizes it is lube and drops it. The Captain says, “This is Bucky and I’s favorite brand—”

Peter covers his face and Bucky plugs his ears. It was going to be a long talk. 

... 

Peter is mentally exhausted by the time the pair leave. Peter distantly understands that Captain Rogers probably feels liberated by being able to speak openly about his sexuality, maybe even feels a responsibility to guide Peter because there had been no one to guide him, but he has a hard time appreciating that as he dumps the lube, a book called How to Bottom Without Pain or Stains, a box of magnum condoms, and a fairly large—in Peter’s opinion, anyway—silicone anal plug on his bed. Over the course of the conversation, Peter had been forced to come to the horrifying conclusion that Captain Rogers must know something about Wade’s penis that Peter didn’t. 

Peter eyes the plug dubiously, but before he can explore his thoughts about the hypothetical size of Wade’s junk and the hypothetical situation in which Captain Rogers had seen it, he hears the door open and May call into the apartment for him. “Coming!” he says, leaving his room without bothering to hide the materials given to him during his Super Talk. “You just missed Captain Rogers and Bucky,” he says as he enters the kitchen, finding Aunt May humming as she looks through some papers on the kitchen table. 

“Oh, I ran into them in the hall,” she murmurs. “What do you want for dinner? I was thinking about ordering in Thai.”

“That sounds great, Aunt May. Did they say anything to you?” Peter cringes as he awaits her answer.

“Ahh, Steve said that you were a ‘moral young man’ and to call him if I needed anything. Bucky just looked like he wanted to leave, but he sort of always looks like that. I’ve got a friend coming over for dinner, by the way, if that’s okay. My new friend I mentioned earlier.”

“Of course, Aunt May, I can’t wait to meet the guy. Want me to call in the order?”

“Yes, and dress up nice. He’s supposed to be arriving at 6:30.”

...

At 6:30, Peter has just finished getting ready, putting on a pair of business-casual black slacks and red button-down shirt. He’d fussed over his overlong hair—he hadn’t had a haircut in nearly two months—wanting to make a great first impression to his aunt’s new “friend.” It had been long enough since they lost Uncle Ben that Peter had been thinking for a while that Aunt May might need someone new in her life. Aunt May is setting the table as he strides through the kitchen—the food had arrived less than ten minutes previously—and he assures her with a wink, “I’ve got it, Aunt May.”

Peter is still grinning when he throws open the door. It falls from his face as he locks eyes with Wade. They are beautiful and grey and warm. _Wade_  is beautiful and warm, dressed more nicely than Peter has ever seen him in a well-fitted dress shirt and unripped jeans. Wade holds out a single red rose to him. Peter looks down at it, then up at Wade, then down at the rose. He notices that in Wade’s left hand, by his side, is another rose—a pink one.

Wade’s smile wavers as they stare at each other, Peter’s face blank. Peter watches Wade’s expression shift from joy, to confusion, to surprise. The first words spoken between them are Wade’s. 

“Oh my god, you didn’t know I was coming.”

Peter shakes his head no, slowly. 

“Should I leave?”

Peter stares at him, feeling squirmy warmth in his stomach. He shakes his head again, becomes aware that his mouth is hanging open, and shuts it.

“... Can I come in, then?”

Peter blinks once, twice, a third time. He steps to the side, allowing the hulking form of his, of his— _boyfriend_ to enter the apartment. When did Wade get so huge? Was he always that much bigger than Peter? Why didn’t he notice before? Lack of reference, maybe?

Peter pales dramatically as Captain Roger’s gifts suddenly make much, much more sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole chapter was just me trying to excuse having Wade show up with roses when Peter isn’t expecting it, and getting to have Wade realize Peter didn’t know he was coming. I wasn’t going to write about Steve or Bucky in here, but I wanted to fill Peter’s day a bit more. I’m glad I did; I ended up liking that scene.


	13. Scarlet Spider

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fucking love characterizing Wade as a woke, thoughtful, empathetic man with low self esteem who just wants to be L O V E D and maybe his relationship with Peter can’t really be completely healthy until there is no longer a power imbalance associated with experience between them, but dear god does he acknowledge that and actively want to protect Peter from himself and others UGH it’s so GOOD

Peter shuts the door behind Wade, and the pair stare at each other again for a moment, Wade looking like he can’t decide whether to be uncomfortable or amused. Hesitantly, the huge man holds the red rose out to Peter again. Peter takes it—it’s stunning, obviously bought from a florist. And it smells delightful. He smells it, shutting his eyes, and is surprised to feel lips on his forehead. They are gone before he can open his eyes, and Peter can feel his face heat as he watches Wade straighten up from leaning down to kiss him. 

“Wade, is that you?” Aunt May calls out. 

Wade smiles, turning and walking into the kitchen. “Hello, Aunt May. How have you been?”

“Lovely, just lovely now that my boy is home—oh, my goodness, you sweet, sweet man! Is that for me? Thank you!” Peter rounds the corner, seeing his Aunt press her nose into the pink petals of her gift from Wade. He blinks. He hadn’t known that she and Wade knew each other more than in passing—they must have bonded while he was “sick.” 

“Oh, no, Aunt May, thank _you_  for inviting me into your home!”

The dinner is awkward, entirely because of Peter not being able to handle himself. May and Wade carry on a conversation easily, chatting about Wade’s military background and May’s childhood in rural Maine, with Peter only able to stammer out short responses when asked direct questions as he struggles with his hands sticking to the table, his hair, his chopsticks, his napkin... And blushing every time he makes eye contact with Wade. He simply can’t handle himself, his emotions running too high, his stomach doing flips like when he’s walking into a dangerous mission.

To make things worse, May and Wade both visibly find it cute and endearing. The dinner is actually pretty short, only consisting of the time needed to eat a meal from a take-out box, and then May and Peter are putting away leftovers, May still chatting away to Wade as Peter struggles to hear them over his own heartbeat. “—his theater teacher, Mr. Matthews—” he hears, and realizes very, very belatedly that they are talking about him. But it’s like he’s gotten tinnitus, he simply can’t hear them clearly as his fight-or-flight response to his anxiety about Wade heighten his senses to the point of uselessness. 

He shakes his head and takes several deep breaths. “—you hear me? Peter? Peter? Are you alright?”

Peter turns his head to his Aunt. He can count her freckles and her heartbeats from ten feet away. “Oh, I-I’m sorry Aunt May. What was that?”

“I said, I didn’t lie to you completely, I actually do have a date tonight with someone I met while you were away. He wanted to meet you now that you’re ‘back from Africa,’ but I told him you were jet lagged. Be a good host to Wade, I’ll be back in probably an hour and a half. Love you.”

“I love you too, Aunt May.” Peter replies faintly to his aunt, who is visibly pleased with herself for playing matchmaker. Peter is starting to calm down as she bustles out the door, but he still jumps when someone sets a hand on his shoulder.

It’s Wade, obviously. Peter turns and looks up, up, up into his concerned grey eyes. “You ‘kay?” Peter nods. “You sure?” He nods again. “You wanna sit down and tell me what’s up, baby boy?” A moment of hesitation before he nods a third time. 

Despite the fact that it is Peter’s home and he is, indeed, the host, Wade leads him into the living room by the arm and sits him down in their older-than-Peter armchair, sitting down across from him on the loveseat where Captain Rogers and Bucky had sat earlier. Wade fills the space just like they did. They sit in silence for a while.

“... Can I tell you a story, baby boy?”

Peter nods, transfixed by Wade’s mouth. Wade smiles at him and begins. “So, once, before I got my powers, I was hired to do some work that had me in Italy for a while. Beautiful place, Italy, but Rome is a little overrated, just fuckin’ tourists and trash and panhandlers as far as the eye can see. ‘Specially cause I was there in summer. Peak tourist season, you know. So anyway, one day I’m walking around in Rome and this gyp comes at me like _I read future, sir, very cheap, sir, I see your past, sir_ , and I’ve got time to kill before I get to the people I gotta kill—sorry, Spidey, I know you don’t like that—and she starts telling me about myself, some real accurate shit, even knew I’d fought for ‘a country not my own.’ You did know I’m Canadian, right? No? Oh, well, I’m Canadian. Anyway, she’s looking in this crystal ball, right, some real stereotypical shit. And she goes ‘in your past life, you were dog. Handsome dog, proud, but very vicious.’ And baby boy, it’s crazy, but I actually used to have a really dark birthmark behind my ear that looked just like a paw print. You can still sort of see it if you get real close.” Wade shifts closer to Peter, pushing the shell of his ear forward and beckoning Peter lean in close.

Peter, bewildered by the story, wondering why in the hell Wade would believe _anything_ a fortune teller said, leans in very close to examine the skin behind Wade’s ear.

“GrrrrrAFF AFF AFF!” Wade fucking _growls_ at him, snapping his teeth in Peter’s face and barking like an angry Rottweiler. Peter screams and jumps backward, perching on the back of the chair in his signature spider pose, wide-eyed.

Wade is laughing so hard he almost can’t breathe, bent over and wheezing, wiping tears from his eyes, and once Peter realizes it was a joke, he starts laughing, too. A real laugh, from deep in his stomach, for so long his abs hurt from convulsing and his cheeks hurt from smiling. They laugh together for probably longer than the joke really deserves, but eventually they are left just giggling at each other, and Peter realizes that Wade just wanted him to relax. And succeeded in making him do so.

“I’m sorry,” he says through his last sporadic giggles. “I’m acting weird, I know it.”

Wade holds out a hand to Peter, trying to suppress his smile to be serious. “It’s okay, baby boy. Just tell me what’s up?”

Peter shifts, taking Wade’s hand but shyly avoiding his eye. He forces himself to speak. “It’s just that I’ve never dated anyone. Or kissed anyone other than you, when my memories were gone. And I didn’t realize until I had time to think about it today that I was gay. I don’t know how to act.”

Wade is visibly excited—probably at realizing how vulnerable and virginal he is, Peter thinks with just a hint of a temper—but controlling it. “You don’t have to act any special way, baby. Just do what you want to do and don’t do what you don’t want to do.” Peter’s face must say what he’s thinking— _I don’t know what I want to do or how to do it_ —because Wade’s voice softens and grows genuinely serious as he looks Peter in the eye. “Peter.” They realize at the same time that this is the first time Wade has gotten to use his given name, and Peter feels warmth in his stomach and his palms. “I understand that there is an age difference here and I’m prepared to take care of you and ‘be the adult’ until we can be on more equal footing. I know that I have a certain advantage over you and I need you to realize that I won’t use it against you, ever. I only want to be a resource to you. If you have questions about love, or relationships, or sex, I can answer them, and you don’t have to worry about hurting my feelings because I’m an adult and I can handle it. And you don’t need to think that we need to rush into anything physical because I’m older and I ‘expect it’ or whatever other bullshit. I am 100% ready to go at Peter’s pace.” Wade pauses. “Of course, I guess I’m assuming you still want this. Do you?”

Peter is struggling to maintain eye contact with Wade. He nods, looking down at his hands. He can feel his heartbeat in his joints. “Areyoumyboyfriend?” he asks in a rush, flushing.

Peter can see how delighted Wade is out of the corner of his eye, but his voice doesn’t change, obviously not wanting to make Peter more nervous than he already is. “If you want me to be.” 

Biting his lip, Peter nods again. On impulse, he looks up at Wade, breathes in sharply through his nose, and smacks their faces together gracelessly. It hurts them both a little, but Wade only laughs into their kiss, moving his lips against Peter’s in slow, sweet kisses, pulling him into his lap. Peter feels tiny in Wade’s lap, surrounded, overwhelmed by the larger man’s scent and warmth and loud heart beat. They part, and Peter mumbles, “Sorry.”

Wade shakes his head, bodily rearranging Peter on his lap so that he is perched on Wade’s knees. “It’s fine, baby boy. I’m tougher than that. But not much.” He winks. “Be gentle with me.”

Peter laughs. “That’s a good point, Wade. I could probably beat you up.”

“You could probably tear my arms off, Spidey. And honestly, if I do something you don’t like and you don’t know how to tell me to stop, use your strength. I’m obviously not going to stick around if you, like, hit me every time you get angry, but if you can react with your body faster than you can with your mouth, go for it.” Peter is horrified by the idea of hitting Wade out of anger, but understands that it wasn’t the point of the man’s—his boyfriend’s—statement. He nods in agreement. 

Wade rubs a hand over his eyes. “I’m glad I didn’t give in and wreck your sweet ass while you still didn’t have your memories. I’m sure this conversation wouldn’t have gone half as well.”

Peter pales at the phrasing. Wade eyes him critically, and Peter can watch him watching him, then going over what he’s said in his head for what he’d said that was upsetting. Peter wonders vaguely if Wade is just naturally very empathetic or if it’s the training as he gets to exactly what he’d been disturbed by. “Oh, baby boy, are you scared it’ll hurt? I would never hurt you, I can promise you right now that if and when we get there, it won’t hurt.”

Peter’s mouth opens and then shuts as he tries to decide whether to tell Wade about Captain Rogers’ visit and gifts. In the end, he decides to explain, distantly enjoying getting to watch the bit of skin where Wade’s eyebrows should be rising with every word out of his mouth. “It’s probably because you’re so small,” Wade observes when Peter finishes. “He used to be really small before he got his powers. I bet he had a painful experience with a larger, older man at some point.”

That... that makes sense. Peter feels a little guilty and resolves to text the Captain and thank him for the talk sometime soon. Wade continues. “But I’m not a brute. Just because I look like a bridge troll doesn’t mean I’m going to shove it in on the first try like we’re in a gay fanfiction poorly written by a virginal 14 year old straight girl.”

“You don’t look a bridge troll.” 

Wade cocks a non-existent eyebrow at Peter. “What the hell do I look like, then?”

Peter gives him another nervous little peck on the lips, his cheeks still stained scarlet. “You look like Wade.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, I am not a virginal 14 year old straight girl. But seven years ago I definitely wrote some shitty gay porn that trivialized the experience of being a gay man and the cautions necessary for consensual, mutually pleasurable anal sex. Here’s to hoping I can do this pair more justice now that I’m an adult. 
> 
> Also for the record, I 100% personally endorse Sliquid. Best, safest lube on the market. Their flavored lubes are also excellent, and they are running crazy good deals through cyber Monday.


	14. A Spider to Remember

Over the next few days, Wade proves to be a category 5 clinger. Peter receives texts from Wade literally all day, every day. Wade even admits to getting a smartphone at last to communicate with Peter more efficiently. It’s... sweet. And Peter can think about how he wants to say things before he says them, and it makes him feel like they’ve been dating longer than they really have. In addition, Wade comes by every evening at 9:30 to give Peter an awkward, in costume, through-the-window kiss, with his mask rolled up to his nose.

“You know, you can’t act like this with Spider-Man,” Peter had pointed out during one of these visits. “Like, when we start patrolling again. Plenty of people know that Wade Wilson is Deadpool. Soon people will know that Peter Parker is—is dating—” Peter still blushes every time he says it. “—is dating Wade Wilson, who is Deadpool. But if people connect the dots that Wade Wilson is involved with Peter, and Deadpool is involved with Spider-Man...” He had trailed off, grinning. Deadpool had looked absolutely ridiculous with his enormous torso shoved through Peter’s window, his elbows resting on the sill, his hip cocked with his weight all on one leg—like a cocktail waitress leaning over a bar, except armed to the teeth and all red leather and scar tissue. The exposed lips were downturned.

“That’s true,” Wade had finally admitted grudgingly. “Well, I’m off to do some petty crime stopping for my not-boyfriend Spider-Man, then,” he had said, before kissing Peter and disappearing into the night.

Peter shouldn’t have been surprised when Wade showed up at his job, too. He's bent over behind the counter getting new cups when his spidey-senses indicate there is someone at the register. “Hello sir, what can I get started for you today?” he says as he straightens up, just before he locks eyes with Wade, who is grinning ear to ear.

“Your uniform is even cuter than I had imagined it,” he says, then smirks. “How much for you in a to-go cup?”

“$9.24 an hour 25 hours a week,” Peter responds dryly, placing the clear plastic cups in their dispenser.

Wade’s eyes roll up to the ceiling as he pretends to count on his fingers. “I can afford that if I cancel all my porn subscriptions,” he offers, amused with himself. 

Peter snorts. “Are you telling me you spend almost a thousand dollars per month on porn subscriptions? ”

Wade fakes innocent, blinking dumbly at Peter. “Well, not anymore, now I pay nearly a thousand dollars per month on a Peter subscription.”

“So are you gonna order something or not, Wade?” There is a woman walking in who would soon be in line behind Wade if they didn’t hurry up. 

Wade glances at the menu, looking startled, as though the idea hadn’t actually occurred to him. “Ooh. I’ll try the dirty chai. With an extra shot of espresso. And a kiss?”

Peter rolls his eyes but leans forward, allowing Wade to kiss him on the cheek. Wade pulls out his wallet but Peter shakes his head. “Let me get this one,” he says. “As a thank-you for visiting me.”

The woman behind Wade in line looks a little horrified, and Peter flushes a little as he mumbles to her, “What can I get started for you today, ma’am?”

She leans in close, her eyes on where Wade is settling in the corner. “That poor man, that must have hurt. He must be very sweet to land a cutie like you. It says a lot about your character that you’re willing to be with someone for love instead of looks.”

Peter is a little relieved that the woman’s issue is with Wade’s scars instead of their homosexuality, but his voice is still a bit tight. “With all due respect, ma’am, I find him very attractive.”

The woman colors a little. “Oh, dear, I’m sorry, that was rude, wasn’t it?” She apologizes, orders, and leaves him a big tip in the jar. 

Peter makes the woman’s drink—a double shot latte—before Wade’s, though he does all the espresso at once. He hopes she will leave and she does, walking straight back out the door when he hands her the cup. He makes Wade’s in a mug, noticing that the man seems to have set up shop to spend some time in The Chipped Mug. He has an ancient-looking laptop in front of him.

“And here I thought you were just here to see me,” he teases as he sets the mug down in front of Wade. “What are you working on?”

“My screenplay,” Wade answers seriously. “It’s called Spiders. It’s a lot like Cats, but instead of cats, it’s spiders.”

Peter laughs and returns to work, occasionally catching Wade’s eye as he helps other customers. It’s nice. It makes him feel... secure, maybe?

...

Their first date that doesn’t include Aunt May takes them through Central Park. Wade thinks that maybe he’s never been so happy as he is now, enjoying the early fall air at sunset, his arm around a sweet little nerd who is blathering on about landscape architecture, Frederick Olmsted, and the flora of the park. “—look, Wade, _another_ black cherry tree, I told you they were everywhere—”

Wade gestures vaguely. “What’s your, ah, degree in again?”

“I’m getting a bachelor of science in biochemical engineering and biomechanics. Why do you ask?”

“You seem to know a lot about... what would you call this? Ecology? Botany?”

Peter nods. “Something like that. Before I started on my web project, I wanted to be an ecologist. I wanted to study fungi-plant interactions. I’m not _too_ far off, really. It’s still biology, just... mathier. More medical. I still read the papers and stuff when I get a spare moment.”

Wade pulls the boy closer. He is just so cute, so smart. Wade doesn’t let himself think about what Peter could possibly be doing with him; it’s not a productive line of thinking. “What’s that one?” he asks. 

“That’s an American elm. Pretty, aren’t they? Invasive Japanese beetles love them—”

Eventually, Wade realizes they’re outside his condo building. They’d been engrossed in a conversation about game cube games—Wade had hardly noticed where they were going. “You’ve walked me home,” Wade says in mild disbelief. “I was planning to walk _you_  home.”

Peter is blushing—it’s absolutely enchanting, even by the harsh night-time lighting of New York City. “I was—I was planning on coming in,” he stammers, cringing. Wade gets the impression that Peter had intended that to be smooth and flirtatious, but it didn’t matter—Wade is more than happy to invite Peter up to his place.

...

Peter is absolutely dying during the awkward, silent elevator ride. He’s watching Wade out of the corner of his eye, wondering what the other man is thinking. Then, as they approach Wade’s floor, he speaks. “Baby boy,” he says evenly, not looking straight ahead. “When we get into my place, I’m going to pick you up, pin you against the wall, and kiss you senseless. Is that okay?”

Peter doesn’t know how to answer. Literally—he can’t make his tongue work well enough to speak. He makes a squeaking noise that sounds more or less like an affirmative, and Wade takes his hand, dragging Peter to the door to make good on his promise, keys at the ready. Wade has them inside the condo in seconds, and Peter squeals as large, firm hands grab him by the hips, raise him a few inches off the ground, and push him against the wall, hungry lips descending on his own, Wade’s hips pushed into his own. Wade encourages him to wrap his legs around Wade’s torso with his hands, supporting his weight with a hand on his butt, his lips moving against Peter’s, his tongue pressing inside, and it feels so good—

Wade pulls back from the kiss and looks Peter in the eye. Hesitantly, he says, “Is something wrong?”

Peter, dazed, hard as a rock, has a hard time formulating a response that sounds like English. “N-no, sir.”

Wade shuts his eyes with a groan. “Fuck, baby boy, don’t call me sir. Yet. Call me sir later, please. No, I meant, why aren’t you kissing me back?”

This throws Peter for a loop. Very, very slowly, his brain takes over enough from his cock that he’s able to piece together— “Oh, fuck, I’m supposed to move my lips, too. It—it didn’t occur to me, Wade, I’m sorry.”

Wade presses his face into Peter’s neck and laughs, hard, his shoulders shaking. “Oh, fucking hell, sweetheart. You’re the cutest thing,” he whispers against Peter’s neck, his breath warm and ticklish. Peter squirms and moans at the contact. “I’ve been wondering... ever since I saw you for dinner earlier this week and we kissed... fuck, baby boy, you’re adorable.”

Then his lips find Peter’s again, and this time, Peter tries to mimic his partner, moving his lips in the strange, slow-motion massage that felt so good when Wade did it—and it must work, because Wade is making sexy noises into Peter’s mouth, indescribable little growls of pleasure. Wade grinds his crotch into Peter’s, making his breath hitch. Wade grabs both of his thighs and jostles Peter’s weight into his arms, spinning around and heading towards the couch, where Wade sits himself down with Peter on his lap.

Suddenly there is a warm, irregularly textured hand venturing up the back of his shirt to touch his back—another holding the back of his head as Wade kisses him deeply, his thick, hot tongue playing at Peter’s lips, Peter’s own shy tongue. Wade touches him in a way that conveys passion in and of itself—like he can’t get enough of Peter, frantic but loving, like he wants exactly all of whatever Peter wants to give.

Emboldened, Peter slides his hand from Wade’s head to his neck, then down his chest over his clothes. He can feel Wade’s obscenely muscular form under his palm—between his thighs, too, if he’s being honest. He rubs his hand over Wade’s hard stomach and plays with the waistband of his jeans. He breaks his kiss with Wade and buries his head in Wade’s neck, deciding on impulse to kiss it the exact same way he’s been kissing Wade’s lips—opened mouthed, wet, hot. Wade moans aloud and Peter takes just enough confidence from that to press his hand to Wade’s erection through his jeans.

Peter jolts backward in Wade’s lap. “That _thing_ is enormous, Wade.” They can both hear the anger in Peter’s tone—it shatters the mood. 

Wade shakes his head, panting, looking like he needs a moment to collect his thoughts. “Why are you angry about it, baby?” he asks breathlessly, trying to make eye contact with Peter.

Peter realizes almost immediately that his irritation—bubbling in his stomach almost as strongly as the lust had done—is irrational. “It’s fine,” he says, sounding petty even to his own ears.

Wade shakes his head quickly. “Oh, no, sweetheart. Relationships are about communication. Communicate. Use “I” statements and explain how you feel. Okay?”

Peter takes several long moments to compose his thoughts, finding himself unable to make eye contact as he does so. He fidgets in Wade’s lap. “I feel intimidated,” he grinds out eventually. “And...”

Wade strokes his cheek, gentle. His eyes are loving. “And?”

Peter squeezes his eyes shut. “Inadequate?”

Wade laughs out loud at this, making Peter flinch. Wade shushes him, petting his hair with both hands. “Oh, baby, I’m sorry. I wasn’t really laughing at you. I just thought it was funny, I’m sitting here feeling inadequate about looking like I was made out of leftover ballsack, and you’re sitting there worried about not having the same size dick as someone 8 inches taller and 100 pounds heavier than you. It doesn’t matter, Peter.”

Peter bristles. “You’re only saying that because you’re assuming you’re going to top, just like Bucky and Capt—”

“Whoa, whoa, calm down,” Wade implores him, eyes growing serious. He allows Peter off of his lap, and Peter pushes himself against the far arm of the couch, trying not to pout. “I don’t have to top. You don’t have to bottom. We don’t even need to have penetrative sex, lots of gay men don’t. And honestly, Peter, if you’re willing to put it in my ugly ass, I don’t care if it’s the size of your arm or the size of my pinky. I’d feel lucky you wanted me at all.”

Slowly, Peter relaxes, feeling the truth in his boyfriend’s words. “I’ve never... seen... anyone else’s.” He admits. “And no one has seen mine. I’ve always wondered if I’m... I don’t know, below average.”

Wade shrugs, holding out his hand to Peter. Peter takes it uncertainly. “Have you ever measured it?”

“... obviously.”

“How long is it?”

“Six inches?”

“Oh, you’re fine. That’s actually a little bit above average.”

“Oh... good.”

Wade grins at him. “Better?”

Blushing, Peter nods. “Yeah. Thanks. Sorry for getting mad.”

He pushes his hands into his lap, uncomfortable, and after a moment, Wade asks hesitantly, “Are you still hard?” Peter swallows and nods, not looking at Wade. “Can I... can I get you off? With my hands? Would that be okay?”

...

Wade honestly can’t believe he just asked that, as he looks at his blushing, trembling, emotional, beautiful little spider. For a moment, they are suspended in animation, and then Peter nods jerkily. “You’re sure?” Another nod. Well, isn’t his baby boy feeling brave? Wade stands and extends a hand to Peter, who takes it and allows Wade to pull him to his feet and lead him to the bedroom. 

When they arrive, Wade lets go of the boy’s hand and gives him a moment to collect himself—or change his mind—as he arranges pillows against the headboard. Then he hefts himself onto the bed, lays back against the pillows, and opens his legs, smirking when he sees Peter’s wide eyes on his bulge. “C’mon, baby boy. Your back to my chest.”

The boy does as told—a sweet little submissive, just like Wade had predicted—leaning his weight stiffly onto Wade’s chest. Wade inhales his smell, kisses his neck. The boy gasps, then whines as Wade’s hands wind their way up his tiny lover’s chest, down his ribs, across his sensitive stomach. The feeling of Peter’s flawless skin is addictive, sweet—it makes Wade want to dig his fingers in. The boy’s head rolls back into Wade shoulder as he moans a little louder, his hips shifting restlessly.

Wade lets his fingers dip under his spider’s jeans, a question; he’s answered with a keening whine and Peter whispering “Please!” into the darkened room. Wade is almost shaking himself with how badly he wants to do _everything_ to the boy in his lap—make him scream, make him cum, make him cry, make him moan—but he’s still trying to exude calm as he starts to undo Peter’s jeans.

There are suddenly small hands against his face, and Wade shuts his eyes as the boy’s palm covers them. “D-don’t look,” he demands, turning his head to hide his face in Wade’s neck.

“Yeah,” Wade agrees, keeping his eyes shut. His fingers are tugging down Peter’s zipper, and then both his hands are diving into the boy’s boxers, one cupping his balls, the other wrapping around his cock. The boy _screams_ , almost directly into Wade’s ear, and Wade’s cock throbs as he feels the satin-covered-steel shaft pulse in his hands. He strokes the boy once, experimentally, and he kicks, prompting Wade to blindly capture his legs with his own and hold them down, spread apart, as Wade begins to stroke Peter’s cock in earnest.

Peter howls, his hips thrusting into Wade’s hands, and Wade knows in the first minute that Peter isn’t going to last more than two. Sure enough, only moments later, Peter is cumming over Wade’s hand, his face pressed tightly into Wade’s neck, his fingertips digging into Wade’s temple, his hips jerking as sobs are wrenched from his throat. It’s the most beautiful orgasm Wade has ever heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is UP fuckers I am DRUNK this is UNEDITED 
> 
> Updates is gonna be slower now that I’m back to school. I’m living that double-major-VP-of-a-sorority-doing-research-finals-week life. Aw yeah.


	15. Spider Sense and Sensibility

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: hate crime (stopped w/o injury), f-slur

Being Spider-Man again is heady.

He swings through the city a little earlier in the day than usual—a little lower as well. He can hear people pointing him out, saying, “Is that Spider-Man?” He can see cameras and phones pointed at him. Children squeal, people wave at him. A punk-looking kid with a floppy pink mohawk gives him a respectful upward-nod, making Peter grin, thinking that if they’d gone to high school together, that kid would have called Peter Parker a prep and a nerd. _And been right._

The best part, of course, is helping people. He webs a little girl out of the path of a negligent cyclist, stops a mugging, returns an old woman’s purse. He’s sitting on a rooftop, eyes shut in concentration as he focuses his hearing far away. It’s a fairly quiet night for New York—starting to be a bit chilly, too. He hears Deadpool before he sees him. 

It’s a little surreal, like he’s stepping back in time. They sit about three feet apart, feet dangling over the edge, just like any other night before Peter had disappeared and lost his memories. “Been a while, Webs.”

Peter inclines his head a little, checking that his voice is that of Spider-Man before he responds measuredly, “I was on sabbatical.”

Wade laughs at that, and the laughter even more than the voice makes it hard for Peter to see Deadpool where his boyfriend is sitting. _It’s just Wade in a suit._ Peter smiles under his mask, feeling shy. The last week or so had involved a lot of kissing and blind touching, exploring each other’s bodies and feelings. It was nice. It was what Peter had always thought dating would be like when he was in high school, listening to friends and acquaintances talk about kissing for hours. Peter is dimly aware that adults don’t really do that and is thankful Wade is letting him experience it anyway. It’s given Peter time to come to grapple with his sexuality, memories, identities, and future as well.

There’s a scream. Peter stiffens, his head turning towards the sound. It’s a few blocks away. Wade is getting to his feet before Peter tells him what he’d heard. “You look like a hunting dog when you do that,” Wade teases him as he helps Peter to his feet. He mimes the motion, adding a raised paw to illustrate his point.

Peter jerks his head. “Alleyway, three blocks north and one over. See you there.”

He throws himself off the roof, knowing he’ll beat Wade by at least a minute or two. Within 60 seconds he’s looking down into the alley where a woman wearing tall heels and a slinky dress is cowering against the wall as three men surround her. “Ugly faggot!” one of them curses, aiming a kick at the figure, who screams as the boot collides with her side. Ah. Probably a man, then—a queen. It always leaves a particularly bad taste in Peter’s mouth when he sees a hate crime in progress like this. 

The first web hits its mark, blinding the man who had kicked and nearly knocking him over from the force. He scrabbles at the webbing as Peter _lands_ on one of his companions, knocking him screaming to the ground and webbing him there. He turns to the third. He’s looking hesitant—but drunk and cocky. _Good._ Peter would like to see him try it. 

Peter is planning on letting the blow fall—it wasn’t going to hurt—then incapacitating the man while he was open, but in the split second that the fist is hurtling towards him, a wall of red leather moves into the way. Peter huffs, stepping around the form of Deadpool, who is hunched over to glare with the blank white eyes of his mask at the man who had attempted to punch Peter, one huge hand encompassing the fist of the thug, who looks ready to piss himself. To his horror, Wade’s hand closes around the man’s throat, and he takes a step forward. “Hey, ‘Pool, calm down. Drop him so I can web him.”

Wade doesn’t drop the man. There is killing intent radiating out from him as his gloved hand tightens. Peter opens his mouth to yell at Deadpool, but a sharp pain near his shoulder stops him. He yells out in pain and turns to see the man he’d blinded earlier holding a knife, skin around his eyes red and raw from where he’d torn the webbing off prematurely.

In an instant, Wade is shoving him back and advancing on the knife-wielding attacker. Before anything can get more out of hand, Peter deftly webs the man Wade had choked to the wall, where he sat slumped like the rag doll he’d been when Wade threw him there, then shoots more webbing under Wade’s arm to disarm the last assailant. He isn’t fast enough to prevent Wade from connecting a well-trained punch to the man’s face—Peter winces as he hears the jaw crack—knocking him out. 

Leaving aside Wade’s obvious rage and Peter’s anger at him for interfering, Peter quickly twists to see that the cut to his shoulder is very shallow, having mostly bounced off of the newly piercing-resistant material—material that was already stitching itself back together. Peter felt a brief flare of satisfaction at the sight—the self-healing fabric idea had come out of a brainstorming session with Tony last spring and he’d done a lot of the groundwork on it. He brushes those thoughts aside as quickly as they come, bounding over to the victim of the attack in a few long strides.

She’s sitting against the wall, looking disheveled and shocked. Peter crouches next to her and makes a soothing noise in his throat when she jumps. “I’m so sorry you had to deal with that,” Peter says quietly, holding out a blue gloved hand to her. She takes it and holds it for a second, looking down at it.

“I didn’t think anyone would help,” she says, sounding distant. She doesn’t pitch her voice.

“Are you alright? What’s your name?”

She tilts her head back to look at Spider-Man’s mask. “Karma. I’m fine, thank you, honey. ... I’m... I’m a big fan, Spider-Man. I’m so glad to know that you would care about people like me.”

Peter helps her to her feet, mildly surprised that she is much taller than him in her heels. “Of course,” he says. He points at Wade, allowing a little humor into his tone. “Heck, Deadpool rocks a dress and Captain America has a boyfriend. And even then, I hope you know that all of the super heroes of New York understand what it’s like to be different and that we care about everyone in the city. Do you want me to call the police?”

She’s beaming at him now, looking as though she’d never thought about heroes as real people. He doesn’t blame her—they can seem larger than life, more symbol than individual. He remembers when Mr. Stark was more god than man to him. “Thank you again. No, I don’t like dealing with the police if I can help it, and I think Mr. Scarypants over there—” She gestures at Wade, standing silent and still behind Peter. “—will make them think twice about doing this again.” 

They say their goodbyes, Peter turning a blind eye as Karma aims a kick at one of the bound men’s side. It seems deserved, considering they obviously hadn’t thought about fighting fair before. Then Peter is walking away, a hand pressed against the cut on his shoulder. “I don’t think I need stitches, but I definitely need a bandage. Aren’t we only a block from your place?”

The walk is silent. Peter is fuming about Wade acting like Peter can’t protect himself. Wade is unreadable to Peter, all tense muscles and expressionless leather and eerie silence. They take the fire escape up, the climb long but satisfying to Peter, who enjoys the very slight burn in his thighs as they reach Wade’s unlocked window. Peter sets his hands on the sill and hops in gracefully, the action tugging at his cut but making him feel cool. Wade clambers in after him, immediately taking Peter by the arm and pulling him into the bathroom. Peter huffs at the manhandling. “Alright, Wade, you’re creeping me out a bit so I’m just going to talk. You cannot get in the way and protect me like that. I’m a grown man. And I’m stronger than you! I had it handled and I didn’t need to be coddled—”

Wade is ignoring him as he pulls out the first aid kit and stands. Peter squeaks indignantly as Wade turns him around, unzips his suit down to his waist, and pushes the fabric roughly from his shoulders. In the next moment, Wade’s gloved hand is on his back, imploring him to bend over the sink a little. He does. “Wade, for the love of god, what is wrong with you? Why did you interrupt me and then go quiet? I don’t—”

“Shut up for a second.” 

Peter blinks, shocked into silence. He can’t recall Wade ever saying something like that to him. The larger man is dabbing antimicrobial cream onto the cut and washing away the dried blood around it, applying a bandage. Peter watches in the mirror as the hulking leather-clad form wraps his arms around Peter’s bare chest, his masked face burying into where Peter’s own mask meets exposed skin. 

“... I didn’t know how hard it was going to be.”

For a long time, Wade doesn’t continue, and Peter just lightly rests his hands, still tangled in the suit, on Wade’s thick arms. Finally, though, he speaks, sounding choked. “I can’t look at you and see Spider-Man anymore. All I see is how sweet and trusting and needy you were when you were namelessly padding around my condo, unable to take care of yourself. All I see is you in your cute little barista uniform, or helping May in the kitchen, or blathering on about R programming’s impact on biostatistics.” The arms tighten. “And I can’t separate me, Wade Wilson, jealous boyfriend, from me, Deadpool, merc with a mouth.”

Peter’s mouth quirks behind the fabric of his mask. “Jealous?”

Wade shudders out a long sigh. “If you were the kind of guy who noticed how often people look at you when we are out together, you’d notice how much time I spend glaring at them.”

Peter laughs softly, turning in Wade’s arms. He feels braver with the mask on. “I know what you mean. It’s hard for me to reconcile that I’m the amazing Spider-Man and also want to... to... be small and protected in your arms. When I’m Peter Parker.”

The leather-clad face is in Peter’s neck, the arms circling around his waist rigid with possessive tension. “I want to see all of you,” Wade whispers, lifting his head to brush lips through their masks.

They’d only done _stuff_ with the lights out or with Wade’s eyes covered. Peter flushes, grateful that the mask will hide it from Wade. “O-only if you’ll let me... only if you’ll let me do it back this time.” Wade had been steadfast in refusing to allow Peter to get him off in return, insisting that he didn’t want Peter to feel obligated.

Wade hums in thought. “I’ll let you watch me do it,” he compromises, his voice low and full of promise. “When I’m done with you I hope you don’t have the energy for anything else.” Peter shivers. Leather-covered lips press against his cheek. “I have an idea for mood lighting.”

Peter laughs at that, but Wade just shrugs, not having really meant it as a joke. “Can I shower first?” Peter says. “I was patrolling for a while before you showed up and got me stabbed.”

“... yeah, of course.” Wade mumbles. Peter cringes, realizing he’s hurt Wade’s feelings, and struggles for a second with how to take it back. He grabs Wade’s hand.

“We may still be working out the kinks, but I’ve trusted you with my life for years. That isn’t going to change. Deadpool has been Spider-Man’s partner almost since the beginning. Once we adjust, Wade Wilson being Peter Parker’s partner will only make us stronger.” Wade makes a happy noise and tightens his grip for a fraction of a second before he lets Peter go. Peter hopes that he can feel more secure soon as he watches Wade turn the corner.

Peter is startled when Wade shoves his head back around the corner. “I’d be remiss if I didn’t make an obligatory joke about working out your kinks—” he starts, lechery in his tone, and Peter rolls his eyes as he shuts the door in his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just read Untethered by Vixen13 and absolutely had to write some Spideypool.
> 
> Next chapter should be mostly smut. :) I used to be EXCELLENT at writing smut, a thousand years ago when I was a horny, kinky virgin who wrote for South Park. I suck at it now—I realized it really wasn’t all that. Practice makes perfect though—both in writing sex and having it. For what it’s worth, if there are any young people out there who would like to ask an open-minded adult who did years of research and writing on sex education literally anything about sex, from mechanics to safety to STDs to ethics to being both a sub and a feminist to sexual expectations in different ethnic and religious contexts, feel free to PM me. I promise to answer you quickly, thoroughly, and professionally. 
> 
> I wrote this instead of reading about human behavioral ecology, or doing my physics homework, or finishing my paper on female héroes in Colombian cinema, or going and buying a rat for my python. I propose a toast to everyone reading this as a form of procrastination.


	16. Brave New Spider

When Peter is showered and dried, he stands for a long time in the bathroom, paralyzed by indecision. 

He could put the suit back on. But that seems stupid.

He could just wear the wet towel. But that would mean walking into Wade’s bedroom already pretty much naked, which terrifies him.

Technically, he could just walk in already 100% naked. But his blush would probably wreck the sexiness of that move. And he’s too scared. 

There’s a knock at the door. “I’ve got some clothes,” Wade’s voice says. “I’ll leave them here. I’ll be in the bedroom whenever you’re ready.” There’s a pause. “Don’t forget you can change your mind.”

“N-no!” Another short silence. “No, I don’t want to change my mind. Thank you for the clothes. I’ll... I’ll be there soon.”

Peter listens for Wade’s footsteps to disappear down the hall, for the door to his bedroom to click shut. He lets out a breath, feeling off-balance as he tries to steady himself. He gets dressed in Wade’s enormous sweatpants and t-shirt, hands shaking with nerves and excitement. He holds his breath all the way down the hall, panting when he remembers to breathe again. “I’m the amazing Spider-Man,” he mumbles to himself. “I can... I can do this.”

...

The poor kid looks terrified. Guilt and arousal pool in his gut as he watches the kid watch him from the doorway. He looks down at himself, shirtless in jeans, 240 pounds, 6’4” of muscle and ugly. He looks at his own stomach, where his cross-hatching of scar tissue stretches over a flawless 6 pack. It’s... a lot. He tries to think of himself back when he was young enough to still be a twink—he’d been far younger than Peter then—would he have been able to lose his virginity to a monster twice his size, with more than a decade more experience? Wade is struck by the idea of Peter as a pretty virgin sacrifice to a Minotaur or a demigod of war. He glances over at the candles he’d lit, feeling stupid for thinking the soft lighting would make him easier on the eyes. 

“I shouldn’t have taken off my shirt. Sorry, I know I’m not easy to look at.”

Wade is already moving to redress when Peter’s mouth opens, his words harried to match the deep flush of his cheeks and the panic in his eyes. “I was just thinking how much I’d like to lick you. Here.” Peter touches a finger to his own stomach, vague and unblinking at his takes Wade in.

Wade freezes. So does Peter, looking mortified. He hasn’t been looked at like that since...

Wade is the adult. So he makes himself speak first, his voice strained. “Frankly, baby boy. Frankly, I’m wrapped. You can do whatever you want to me.” Peter makes a squeaking noise in his throat, looking positively _overwhelmed_ by this simple statement. It’s the cutest thing Wade’s ever seen. “Come here, sweetheart. I won’t bite.” He holds his arms out for Peter, who finally moves from the doorway, transfixed. He crawls onto the bed, between Wade’s legs and into his embrace, pressing kisses to Wade’s neck. It feels like bursts of electricity everywhere Peter’s lips deign to touch him. His weight on Wade’s chest is a security blanket, the notches of his spine under Wade’s fingers a gift, the smell of the hair tickling his nose a miracle.

“Don’t hide from me,” he whispers, pulling the tiny form against his chest, threading a hand through Peter’s hair and pulling lightly to force eye contact.

Peter mewls at the contact, and his eyes are shut when Wade can see his face. They open halfway, looking at Wade with wonder and heat and affection, so blue.  _You can call me anything you like_ , Peter’s voice echoes in his mind. So pretty. Their lips meet, and Peter’s kisses are still clumsy and overly wet, virginal and inexperienced. Wade loves them, loves everything about them that is something a more experienced person wouldn’t do, loves that Peter trusts him enough to moan into his mouth like a porn star.

Wade realizes too late to stop himself that he’s tugging off Peter’s shirt, but the boy doesn’t seem to mind. He sits up on his knees, bending obediently to allow the garment to slide off of him. Wade’s eyes rove over his bare chest, the sweet, creamy color and texture of his perfect skin, the freckles, the definition of ab and hip and clavicle, the cute little pink nipples. The blush spreading over his chest. When Wade finds it in himself to look away to Peter’s face, he finds him worrying his lower lip, eyelashes lowered shyly, as though thinking Wade might reject him. As though thinking Wade wasn’t already his forever. 

“Donatello’s _David_ , circa 1440, colorized,” Wade quips, surprised to find himself breathless.

Peter blinks. “What?”

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Oh.”

“Take off your pants, baby boy.”

Wade feels unadulterated love and lust swell inside him as the boy instantly obeys, brow furrowing as he awkwardly shifts his weight to kick off the sweat pants, his free hand hiding his crotch. The candlelight makes Peter’s skin look alive, just how Wade’s feels as he looks at him. He grabs both of Peter’s tiny wrists, tugging his hands out of the way to get a look at the cock that had been haunting his dreams.

It’s beautiful. Perfect, straight, proportionate, flushed a pretty pinkish color at the head in the soft light. A bit of precum glints at the slit, and Wade is overwhelmed by a desire to taste. He licks his lips, and the object of his intense gaze twitches. It brings a ghost of a smile to Wade’s eyes as he looks up to see Peter red-faced and glassy-eyed, looking back at him. “Tell me I can suck you,” he whispers to his young lover.

Peter’s mouth opens to obey, but at first there is only a whine from his throat. “Y-y-you can.”

“I can what?”

“You can suck me.”

“‘You can suck me,’ what?”

“... You can suck me, sir?”

Wade groans, cock throbbing in his jeans, but laughs, letting go of one of Peter’s wrists to stroke his cheek. “I wanted you to say my name,” he explains gently. “Not that I don’t want to hear you call me sir, or master, or daddy—”

Peter cuts him off with a squeak, mortified, and blurts out, “Please suck me off, Wade.”

Crass words, made beautiful by Peter’s lips. Wade wonders wildly if he, too, can be made beautiful by Peter’s lips, but the thought is gone as soon as it forms, and Wade is bracing his arms around Peter, lifting him, twisting them around and laying Peter on his back against the pillows. He plants open-mouthed kisses on Peter’s neck, hips jerking into Peter’s at every little noise of pleasure the boy makes, and he whispers huskily into his ear. “Your wish.”

He kisses his way across the expanse of Peter’s chest, his narrow waist. His fingers count Peter’s ribs, brush across his nipples over and over until he squirms, panting out little gasps. Wade bites and sucks at Peter’s inner thighs until they spread wide apart, wanton, Peter’s hands on Wade’s head.

“ _Please._ ” The word comes out sounding as desperate and broken as Wade feels. It undoes him. Wade groans weakly into the soft flesh of Peter’s thigh, then grips Peter’s hips tightly and wraps his lips around the head of his cock. He tastes almost as divine as he sounds, writhing and moaning and choking on gasps of pleasure and half-spoken words of encouragement as Wade’s tongue slowly circles the swollen glans. Peter’s hands scrabble for purchase, and Wade captures them, linking their fingers together over Peter’s hip bones.

Peter cries out as Wade slowly and smoothly swallows down his cock, pushing until his nose is buried in Peter’s curls, breathing in the scent of him, of soap, of clean skin, the brush of his cock in Wade’s throat more grounding than any other pain or pleasure he’s ever felt in his life. He wishes he had a gag reflex just so he could enjoy choking on it.

He moves his tongue on the underside of Peter’s cock, not moving his head, teasing him. Peter thrusts his hips shallowly, probably worried about breaking Wade’s nose—he definitely could. Not that Wade wouldn’t heal. Not that Wade wouldn’t think it was worth it. Peter sounds like he’s trying to talk, but nothing intelligible comes out as Wade swallows around him, making him sob.

Peter’s right hand breaks its hold from Wade, grabbing Wade’s thick wrist and shoving his hand blindly between his legs, his thighs spreading to an angle that would have made a normal person’s flexors ache. 

Wade flicks his eyes up to Peter’s, surprised, to find that Peter looks wrecked, tears gathering in the corner of his eyes, his lips mouthing _please please please please_. Wade moans on his cock and begins to bob his head at last, pushing the hand Peter had been manipulating up to Peter’s lips.

There’s a moment in which Peter struggles to figure out what Wade is asking him to do, then his lips take Wade’s fingers in, sucking and licking in a desperate promise to please Wade. Wade grinds his hips into the mattress, his pace on Peter’s cock stuttering at the thought. When Wade judges his fingers are wet enough, he takes his hand back, pulling back to focus on Peter’s head as he pushes a finger against the boy’s hole.

Wade feels him stop breathing as it slides in ( _so tight so hot so wet so Wade’s_ ), his back arching and his body falling still. The cock in his mouth pulses, and warm, slightly salty liquid floods his mouth. Wade swallows, still sucking, and Peter keens, his hole clenching hard on Wade’s finger, and Wade can see everything, his parted lips, his scrunched-up face, the tear that escapes his eye, his heaving chest and the bow-tight muscles of his stomach twitching.

Wade feels likes he’s stolen a priceless treasure as he watches it all, letting Peter’s cock fall from his lips when Peter’s expression takes on a hint of pain at the stimulation. “You’re a work of art,” he gasps.

“Nnnngh,” Peter responds. 

Wade’s cock is so hard that it hurts, his pulse is racing, and all he can think about is the finger he has buried in Peter’s tight heat. Experimentally, he moves it, and Peter throws his head back, breath stuttering, pushing his hips towards Wade. Nearly blind with how heady touching his tiny lover is, he leans up, not removing his finger from Wade as he reaches across Peter’s limp body to the nightstand and grabs the lube.

“What—”

“Don’t worry, baby, shh.” Wade is kissing his chest, his neck, his lips, flicking out his tongue to taste Peter’s satiation. “I just want to finger you. I won’t try to put it in, I promise, shh. Can I?”

Peter nods shakily into their kiss, and Wade sits up, pulling his finger out and grabbing Peter’s legs to direct them to rest together on one of Wade’s shoulders. Wade’s hands are shaking—he can feel his pulse in his joints, in his eyelids, would do anything to bury his cock into Peter’s sweet little ass. Anything except for hurt him. The lube is cold and slick, and Wade waits a moment for it to warm up before pushing his finger back against Peter’s hole, his eyes fixed on Peter’s face.

His mouth drops open in a silent scream, eyes shut tight as Wade’s finger invades him. Wade pushes another finger in beside the first, and Peter is hyperventilating, reaching for something to hold to keep himself grounded. Wade takes both of his lover’s tiny hands in his, twisting his fingers in the tight heat, whispering, “Breathe, baby boy, breathe for me.”

Peter’s cock is rock hard again and dripping. To be young again, Wade thinks, smirking, as he starts to thrust his fingers into Peter, aiming for his prostate. Peter screams. “There you go, baby.”

“What the _fuck_ ,” Peter gasps. 

“The male g-spot is up the ass, baby. That’s how we know God doesn’t hate the gays.”

Peter glares at Wade, lips parting to say something, but Wade lets his fingertips rub over that spot again and Peter howls, head thrown back, fingers digging painfully into the back of Wade’s hand. Wade does it again, and again, until Peter is fucking himself on Wade’s hand, using his feet on Wade’a shoulder for leverage. “I’m—I’m going to—”

Wade voice is positively dark. “Do it for me, baby. Good boy.”

The sight of cum splattering over Peter’s flushed skin is intoxicating. He pulls his fingers out of Peter’s limp, shaking body, letting his legs fall to the bed. The desire to take, mark, own, bite is strong, Wade can’t stop himself from straddling Peter’s thighs, his own trembling hands working open the fly of his jeans, pulling out his scarred cock. In seconds, Wade is cumming over his baby boy’s belly, his chest, some making it onto his neck and chin. 

Peter looks absolutely stunned, filthy with their mixed ejaculate, wrecked by his orgasms. Wade’s body is thrumming, hips still jerking with aftershocks of white-hot pleasure. He realizes at length that he’s speaking, that he’d been speaking the whole time. “So good, Peter, so good for me, so beautiful, all mine forever, my baby boy, I love you so much—”

Wade gasps and holds his breath, eyes wide. Weakly, Peter brings his hand up to Wade’s face, cupping his cheek in his palm. His hand is warm and a little damp. He’s smiling sweetly. “Did you know you were saying that the whole time?”

Mute, Wade shakes his head no. He’s distantly amazed to feel his face heat up. It’s been so long since he last blushed that he doesn’t even know if it is visible through the scarring. Peter’s head tilts a little, his chest rising and falling rapidly still. “I’m not ready to say it back,” he says. “But I like it when you say it. Do it again?”

Wade shifts, sinking into the mattress beside Peter, lying on his side and just looking at the beautiful boy in his bed. They are holding each other’s faces, their feet tangled together. Otherwise, they don’t touch, both too hot, too sensitive to consider cuddling properly. Wade’s eyes flick to where his thumb is rests right next to a drop of his own semen. “I love you.”

Peter shuts his eyes, content, a warm noise coming from his chest, smile on his lips. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had no idea where this was going when I sat down to write it, but I’m immensely pleased with it. Even though it should be edited. Oh well. 
> 
> I have the epilogue written for this, so at least now I know how it ends. I love them so much. 
> 
> I wrote this instead of doing ANY work I have due. I have to take a physics quiz over material I haven’t even looked at an hour from now. 
> 
> Hope this wasn’t offensively bad. <3


	17. Much ado about Spiders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small time skip ahead.

It becomes clear immediately that Wade doesn’t like how busy Peter is with school, work, and patrolling back in full swing. Wade is antsy and demanding on Peter’s attention during his shifts at The Chipped Mug, bored to tears and positively obnoxious about it while he studies, handsy when they patrol, pouty when Peter spends time in the lab... Something has to give.

“You _need_ to find something productive to do,” Peter snaps on the third day of his second week back on regular schedule, covered in coffee that he had spilled down his front when Wade smacked him on the ass unexpectedly during his shift at the Mug. 

Wade throws his hands up, petulant. “You’re not making any time for me!” he retorts.

Peter’s eyes dart around the empty shop, grateful that they’re dead at this time of day. “Wade, I can’t just _make time_ for you. I’m a busy guy.”

“Just quit your job, you don’t need it.”

Peter’s jaw drops and he puts hands on his hips, defensive. “Are you serious, Wade? You have no idea whether or not I need this job.”

“Your schooling is free, you don’t have to pay rent, your Aunt takes care of groceries, you don’t drive... I can take care of all the other little incidentals. Let me.” Wade’s eyes are wide and grey, earnest and angry.

Peter inhales through his nose, counting backwards from 10 so that his voice is controlled when he responds, “Wade, do you really think that my Aunt’s job alone is enough to cover rent, utilities, and groceries? In New York?” He thrusts out one of his arms, showing Wade his bony wrist. “Wade, I’ve been hungry almost constantly since I became Spider-Man, because if I ate my fill, Aunt May would starve! Even with my income added, it's usually not enough.”

Wade’s angry eyes move slowly from Peter’s face, down his arm, to the proffered wrist. Then his head lowers, gaze falling to the table. Peter instantly feels guilty for his tone, and starts to apologize, taking back his arm, but he notices Wade’s hands white-knuckled on the table and pauses, waiting for him to speak.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His words are so quiet that if Peter weren’t Spider-Man, he wouldn’t have heard him speak.

“Tell you what?” Peter asks cautiously, hearing the seething anger in Wade’s voice. When Wade looks up at him, his eyes are positively burning. And wet; Peter is taken aback to see the tears. 

“Why didn’t you tell me that you were hungry?”

Peter doesn’t really  know how to answer. “Wade, I’m used to it now, I don’t need—”

Wade shakes his head violently, standing. “Stop.” The larger man hesitates, eyes on Peter’s feet. “I’ll... I’ll talk to you later.”

Then he’s gone. When a bewildered delivery boy shows up 35 minutes later with a huge sandwich for “Baby Boy,” Peter is too guilty to eat it right away. By noon, though, he gives in, wolfing it down on his break. It makes him feel a little better.

...

When he gets off his shift, he has three texts waiting.

The first is from Wade. It says: FIXED <3

The second is from Aunt May: PETER CALL ME ASAP I HAVE GREAT NEWS!

The third is from Mr. Stark: PETER I’M GOING TO CUT YOU IN HALF. HOW DARE YOU LET ME THINK YOUR PART TIME JOB WAS FOR POCKET MONEY.

Peter’s head swims, feet on autopilot as he dials his Aunt. She picks up on the second ring. “Peter!” she shouts. “Peter, baby, I have wonderful news!”

Peter forces a smile so that his fake confusion and excitement sounds more genuine. “What is it, Aunt May?”

“Peter, you’d never guess who just called me to offer me a job!” 

_Tony Stark_ , Peter thinks sarcastically. 

“ _TONY STARK!_ He says that his wife, Pepper, needs a new secretary, that they keep quitting because they can’t handle Pepper’s work load and, uh,” she coughs politely, obviously not quoting Mr. Stark directly. “Her type-A personality.”

Peter smiles despite himself at that description. He’s familiar with Ms. Potts’ difficulty finding and keeping a secretary. Peter had suggested to Tony that they stop hiring young, promising college grads who will expect to move on and who aren’t used to that type of hard work and hire someone who would be more grateful for the opportunity. He supposes Aunt May fits the bill for that. “That’s... wow, Aunt May, that’s wonderful!”

“It’s _more_  than wonderful, Peter! Don’t you see what this means? You can quit your job and focus on school and, uh, spidering!”

“Are you... are you sure, Aunt May?”

“I’m positive! This is the single biggest pay increase of my _entire_ working career.”

“Wow, I’m so proud of you, Aunt May! We’ll celebrate tonight. I’m going to call Mr. Stark and thank him real quick.”

“You’re such a sweet boy, Peter.”

...

“Tony speaking.”

“What did you do?”

“... I hired a loyal, intelligent, mature, beautiful, charming, and reliable woman with a typing speed of over 85 words per minute and twenty years of experience to help my beautiful wife run Stark Industries.”

“Why.”

“Because a little birdie told me that you’ve been starving yourself because of some weird martyr complex, despite knowing for a _fact_ that I would rather die or commit murder than let you go hungry.” The anger is starting to creep into Mr. Stark’s tone in earnest, having been mostly masked under his usual arrogant aloofness before. “Are you off work now?”

Peter is grinding his teeth. “Yes.”

“Good, I’ll call as soon as we get off here and tell them you won’t be working there anymore.”

“Mr. Stark, I’m already scheduled through the end of the week—”

“Peter.”

“...”

“Peter, just let me handle it. See you in the lab tomorrow. I’ll be cutting you in half.”

The line clicks and goes silent. Peter feels his anger crashing over him in waves. He hands are shaking as he dials Wade’s number, ready to scream.

“Baby boy! Baby boy, I’m a college student now.”

What the _fuck_. Peter takes several deep breaths, thrown for a loop entirely by this revelation. He sits down on a nearby bench with a puff of breath, no longer able to focus on where he's going. “You’re a what.”

“A college student! I even got free tuition because I’m a veteran. Now we can study together.”

Peter counts for a few seconds, telling himself that he’s always known Wade was a chaotic force and he’s just going to have to learn to take it in stride... “Where..?”

“Arizona State University. I’m enrolled in their online program.”

“... what major?”

“Oh, I don’t know yet. I’m just taking a couple of classes.” Peter can hear some shuffling, then Wade reads off, “Intro to Feminist Studies... Uh, an English class called Introduction to College Writing... and Living Systems.” Wade clears his throat. “That’s a, uh, a biology class. For non-majors.” His voice keeps getting quieter. “So I can... so I can understand you better. When you talk about school.”

Peter shuts his eyes. It’s so damn sweet he could choke on it. So damn Wade he feels like he’s drowning. “I love you,” he says, as an accident, but instantly realizing that he needed to say it.

Wade’s voice is reverent. “... I love you, too, baby boy.”

“I’m still pissed.”

Peter can practically hear Wade choosing his words as carefully as possible. “Well, baby boy. To be honest, I’m so angry I could kick you.”

Peter snorts. “I’m so angry, I could tear your leg off for kicking me.”

He can hear Wade’s smile. “Baby boy, I’m angry enough to beat you with my own torn off leg.”

Peter isn’t sure who starts it, but suddenly they’re both giggling. Sure, they’d need to have a talk about boundaries, honesty, white lies, expressing needs—but that could be later. They make plans for Wade to go pick out a bottle of champagne so that they can celebrate with May—and somehow that turns into Wade deciding he would be cooking dinner for May and Peter at his condo. Wade all but hangs up on him, blathering about how excited he is to call Aunt May and congratulate her.

Peter stares at his phone, bemused. Being with Wade is always intense. He’s a surprisingly emotional, sweet, thoughtful guy, asking Peter out a a string of dates—Peter guilitily realizes he’s said no to pretty much all of them because he was too busy—bringing him flowers on his nightly visits to Peter’s room, always asking Peter about his day, his feelings. Always answering the phone in the middle of the night when Peter has a nightmare about being with Dr. Danvers again. 

At the same time, sex with Wade is not unlike trying to make love to a half-tamed wolf. There’s always a hyperactive, roving intensity, as though Wade would like to put every single part of Peter in his mouth, all at once, if at all possible. (Peter blushes hotly and coughs at the memory of Wade putting his mouth on one particular part he hadn’t been expecting, the sensation slick, hot, distinctly naughty...) The next layer down is profound restraint, marked by strangled words, tense shoulders, mumbled curses. Peter gets the impression that Wade believes Peter will snap in half ( _physically or mentally?_ Peter wonders) if he gives in to all of the desire he has for Peter. Honestly, Peter imagines Wade is growing more frustrated by the day, routinely fingering and sucking Peter through multiple orgasms while refusing to allow Peter to do anything more than help him stroke himself off. Then, beneath that, the worship, the tenderness, the love, the insecurity. The overall effect is that Peter feels unsure of what Wade unleashed would look like—passionate lovemaking or violent fucking? Would he be laid out on the bed to be worshiped or strapped down to a table to be tortured? On Wade’s arm, shown off to the world as a prize, or locked away in a basement, kept as a pet?

There is sometimes a look in Wade’s eyes when Peter is cumming on his fingers that makes Peter absolutely positive that Wade is about to impale him on his enormous cock with no warning, then and there. It always sends an intense thrill of electric excitement and cold dread down his spine. 

...

By the time Wade sees May into her Uber that night, she’s more than a little tipsy, holding on to his arm for support as they ride down the elevator. Her words slur. “You’re so good to my boy, Wade. Do you love him?”

Wade looks down at her to where her head is rested lazily on his shoulder. “... I do.”

She grins conspiratorially, eyes flashing in the street lights. “I believe you. That’s why I’m letting him stay over with you.” She throws her head back and laughs. “God knows he needs to get laid. High strung, that boy.”

Wade is stunned into silence, but can’t stop himself grinning as they wait together on the sidewalk for the Uber. As it approaches, Aunt May side-eyes him. “You’ve got condoms?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Aunt May nods, clearly satisfied. Wade steps forward and opens the door for her. She hesitates before getting in, grabbing his collar. “Don’t hurt him,” she says seriously. Wade couldn’t say whether she meant emotionally or physically. She kisses him on the cheek and then she’s gone, forcing Wade’s attention to the _other_ tipsy Parker, still upstairs in his condo.

_Maybe he’s asleep_ , Wade thinks hopefully. He’s been dreading the upcoming conversation about Wade essentially losing Peter his job. Alas, he is not asleep when Wade returns. 

But he is naked. 

Wade’s back thumps against the wall, breath forced from his lungs by the strength Peter had used in pushing him there. “Baby boy, what—”

His beautiful baby boy’s blue eyes are sultry-shy as he sinks into his knees in front of Wade, his hands sliding down Wade’s chest, abs, thighs, circling back to his crotch. He leans forward and places a bold, closed-mouth kiss on Wade’s bulge, making him hiss. “Baby boy, what are you doing?”

Those eyes will be the death of him. “Sucking you off.”

_Count to ten, Wilson_. “Baby, no, you’re drunk.”

Peter huffs. “Tipsy,” he corrects. “And allowing myself to feel and act more drunk than I am so I feel confident enough to put your Mjölnir in my mouth. Don’t ruin the illusion.”

The reference rips a nervous chuckle from Wade. He finds his fingers are threaded through Peter’s hair, his cock achingly hard. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” Peter’s grin turns a little impish. “Sir.”

Wade sucks in a breath. “Peter, really—”

“Please, sir?”

Wade cracks. He doesn’t have to say a word, because Peter sees his resolve crumbling and acts, his sweet fingers on Wade’s zipper. When Wade’s cock is released, it’s already fully erect. Wade watches, entranced, as his beautiful baby boy wraps a tentative hand around the base—his fingers only touch if he squeezes, _fuck, what an ego trip_. Peter darts out his tongue to lap at the head of Wade’s cock.

It feels like the best kind of fire. “Tease,” he growls, fingers tightening in Peter’s hair. “Goddamn _tease._ ”

...

The sting of Wade pulling his hair makes Peter want to obey, to please—he wraps his mouth around Wade’s cock, pleasure shivering through him at the stretch of his jaw, the weight on his tongue, the taste of _Wade_ , the sounds of intense pleasure and longing ripped from Wade’s throat. Wade’s voice is already ruined when he speaks. “Baby—Baby boy, god, you’re perfect. Baby boy, hold—hold my hips down. I don’t want to hurt you.”

For a dizzying moment, Peter sees the half-tame wolf. He imagines Wade fisting both hands in his hair, shoving the entire length of his almost wrist-thick member into Peter’s throat, choking him, fucking his mouth, not letting him breathe. Fear tightens in his stomach, but also in his balls, and Peter isn’t sure if he wants that to happen or not. Either way, he obeys Wade, pinning the larger man’s hips to the wall with enough of his super strength that he can feel Wade strain against his hands and fail to move them.

A hand brushes Peter’s hair out of his eyes. “Good boy.”

Peter moans. He starts to suck, to bob his head and move his tongue, just like Wade does to him. He’s positive he’s not doing a great job, but from Wade’s lips pours nothing but love and encouragement. It’s intoxicating. He pushes down harder, gags, tries again, gets comfortable, finds a rhythm.

And all the while, Wade is speaking.

_Baby boy I’m in love with you I’m yours I’m wrapped I’m ruined for everyone else you are so beautiful and so perfect I love your mouth I love your eyes I love your ass I love your cock I love all of you so much_

Peter is going as fast as he can, cheeks red from the praise, lost in the rhythm, the feeling of Wade’s fists in his hair, Wade’s fruitless thrusts against Peter’s grip on his hips. The trend of Wade’s monologue starts trailing off from his usual sweet line of praise and adoration as Peter chokes himself on Wade’s cock.

_Gonna give you everything gonna give you the whole world gonna to keep you in a little box gonna keep you safe forever you’re all mine_

There are tears dripping down Peter’s cheeks. He shifts his grip just enough to let Wade thrust shallowly into his mouth.

_I want to tie you up I want to fuck you I want to spank you I want to cum on your beautiful face I want to cum in your beautiful ass I want to make you my sex doll I want to make you my bride I want to knock you up and I want you inside of me I want you to force me to take you and I want to split you in half with my cock_

Wade gasps. His voice clarifies, and Peter knows that he’s actually trying to communicate, that he has no idea what words he’s been stringing together for the last ten minutes. “Baby boy, I’m going to cum. Do you want it in your mouth or on your face?”

Peter sucks _hard_ in response, and Wade shouts as his cock pulses in Peter’s mouth. He chokes, trying to swallow around the huge, thrusting invader, feeling some of it slip out of his mouth as he tries not to gag. He pulls away and a tingle in his spine is his only warning to shut his eyes before a spurt hits him directly on the eyelid, splattering across his nose. He swallows, panting for breath and wiping his face. He looks up at Wade, indignant, and lets go of his hips. Wade slides to the floor, boneless, eyes sort of blank. 

“Do you have _any idea_  what you said to me just now?”

He watches Wade blink, swallow, struggling to catch his breath. Watches his eyes flood back to life, fix on Peter with absolute adoration. “No. Was I talking again? That would explain why my mouth is so dry.”

“You said you wanted to _get me pregnant_!” 

Wade’s mouth falls open just a little in surprise. Then he smirks, eyes sparkling. “You’d be... I mean, come on, baby boy. You’d be super cute pregnant.”

Peter is indignant; just enough that he fights Wade for all of five seconds as the wall of muscle and stupidity he calls his boyfriend starts to kiss him and touch him, purring that he has a favor to return. 


	18. The Taming of the Spider

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest chapter so far.

“You look like a mafia enforcer.”

Wade tears his eyes away from the mirror to frown at Weasel, who is sitting in one of the chairs in the Dillard’s changing room area looking like he would rather be dead or dying than helping Wade pick out a suit. Wade looks back into the mirror, taking in the well-cut grey suit, accessorized with with a dark tie and matching homburg. “... a sexy mafia enforcer?” Wade tries.

Weasel shuts his eyes as though in pain. “Lose the hat, Wade,” he says through gritted teeth. “Why are we doing this, again?”

“It’s my two-month anniversary with my new boyfriend.”

“So?”

“ _Sooo_ , he’s been hinting that he’s ready to have sex.”

Wade realizes his mistake as soon as he sees Weasel’s stricken face in the mirror. He braces himself and turns, hands on his hips as he waits for Weasel’s derision.

“You haven’t...”

“Nope.” He pops the P with finality. 

“He’s a..?”

“V-I-R-G-I-N virgin, yes.”

“How old _is_ this kid?”

“Turns twenty soon.” Wade clears his throat, something dark like chocolate entering his voice. “I was his first kiss.”

“That’s... that’s the gayest thing I’ve ever heard.”

They stare at each other, Wade challenging, Weasel still stunned. “You’re in love,” Weasel says. It’s a statement, not a question. “I didn’t think you were capable.”

“You’re a dick.”

“And you’re ugly. Lose the hat, find a knitted beanie that matches instead. Really, Wade, you look like an asshole both figuratively and literally in that hat.”

...

Peter’s eyes rove up and down Wade’s body as Wade watches him nervously. Wade shifts. “Do, uh, do you like it?”

Peter doesn’t look him in the eye, instead grabbing his hand and imploring him to turn around so that Peter can appraise him from all sides. It makes Wade feel warm deep in his stomach. “I love it,” Peter says finally. “I should change.”

Wade thinks Peter looks _stunning_ in his skinny jeans and his Depeche Mode shirt, but doesn’t argue, hanging out in the kitchen as he waits for Peter to get ready. He gets himself a glass of water, his mouth dry with nerves, and stands at the sink sipping it and tapping his fingers on the counter.

“You look handsome.”

Wade turns and smiles at May. “Your lies are as beautiful as you are, May,” he jokes.

May rolls her eyes, looking very like her nephew as she does so. “I’m not lying,” she says simply. “You have beautiful bones to your face, beautiful form to your body. And lovely eyes.”

Wade grins at her lopsidedly. “I suppose I should thank you for raising Peter to think the same way.”

She shakes her head, eyes warm and fond. “No, thank my late husband, Ben. Everything good in me I learned from him.”

They’re interrupted by Peter' re-emergence wearing a slate grey suit and purple tie. Wade had seen it in his closet before, been told that Stark had it tailored to fit him for some event, but he couldn’t have imagined how delicious it looked on him.

“Close your mouth, dear, you look like a fish,” May whispers to him. 

...

“You’re fucking with me.”

“I’m not fucking with you.”

“... yes you are.”

“I’m not, baby boy. Are you ready to go in?”

“... No, actually, give me a second.”

Wade rubs Peter’s back, giving Peter time to stare straight ahead and think with a blank look on his beautiful face. Peter’s head slowly tilts up to look at Wade. 

“Who told you?”

“Your friend Ned.”

“... you haven’t met Ned.”

“I have my ways.”

Peter takes another thirty seconds to think.

“We’re seeing...”

“Wicked.”

“Wicked.” Peter’s voice is faint.

“Yes. Wicked.” Wade frowns. “It was between this and The Lion King.”

He’d been leaning towards The Lion King until he read the plot synopsis for Wicked. It was too... _on the nose_ to pass up.

Peter shudders out a breath. “I’ve always wanted to see a show on Broadway.”

“I know. Trust me, this isn’t the kind of thing I’d just think up.”

Peter’s lips are on his, then. They stand together in the chilly autumn New York evening, lips moving slowly. When they pull apart, Peter’s grin is so wide it looks painful.

“We’re gonna go see Wicked!”

Wade grins. “If you ever let me take you inside, yes, we will!”

...

It’s a beautiful play. Wade especially loves the costumes. But his favorite parts are as follows: 

First, Peter squeaking with excitement and grabbing Wade’s hand when the lights go down.

Second, Peter turning to him at intermission, breathless, to ask, “Is it weird that this is kind of turning me on?”

Third, glancing over at Peter during the final song to see tears tracking down his face. Wade had never seen him be tearful due to emotion before.

Wade is humming “Defying Gravity” as they leave the theater. Peter is talking a mile a minute about composition, the vast plot departures from the book, the singing, the set construction, the shortened version his high school had put on his senior year. Their hands are still clasped between them and Peter presses into his side, marking Wade as his just as much as he was Peter's. It's perfect. As they walk through the beautiful nighttime city sights, past crowds of people who don’t know they exist, Peter works his way under Wade’s shoulder, wraps his arm around Wade’s waist, leans into him. 

“Thank you, Wade,” he says when his initial analyses seem to run out. “That was the best date I’ve ever been on.”

Wade hums indulgently, pressing Peter into his side even more. “Happy anniversary.”

Peter stumbles. Wade takes his weight, smiling and looking straight ahead to pretend he didn't notice. He knows Peter isn’t the type to think about things like anniversaries and wants to see how he’ll play it.

“Y-yeah. Happy anniversary.” Going along with it. _Cute._

Wade pushes the envelope. “Did you get me anything?”

Peter is tense under his arm, silent for a moment. Then he blurts out, “I want to have sex with you.”

It’s Wade’s turn to stumble. “Baby boy, I know you didn’t know it was our anniversary, you don’t have to—”

Peter shakes his head vehemently. “I want you.”

Wade is warm even against the chill in the air. “We’re... actually already heading to a hotel room,” he admits. “If that’s okay.”

Peter nods. The rest of the walk passes in a tense, passionate silence, Wade occasionally glancing at Peter only to see Peter glance away, sometimes staring awestruck at Peter’s profile until he notices and turns to look. Like a cat and a mouse, but as always, Wade isn’t sure who is hiding and who is seeking. 

The hotel room is gorgeous, the bed is enormous—there are dozens of candles, real rose petals, soft music playing. _Dopinder really outdid himself_ , Wade thinks, shrugging off his jacket and hat. His eyes find a bottle of champagne on ice, with two delicate flutes sat out next to it. Peter is frozen by his fight-or-flight instinct, but Wade is used to seeing that happen to his baby boy on occasion, and simply opens the bottle with a loud POP that gets Peter’s attention. 

“I’m terrified,” Peter says. They’ve been working on blunt, direct communication. Peter was getting fairly good at it. “What if it just doesn’t fit?”

Wade pours a bit of champagne into a flute and hands it to Peter, who sips it nervously. “We’ve been practicing,” Wade says as he lifts his own glass to his lips and takes a sip, enjoying the refreshingly bubbly sensation. “We’ll go slow. The offer is still on the table—”

Peter quickly shakes his head. “We’ve talked this over, Wade. I’m positive this is how I want to lose my virginity. I want you to take care of me.”

Wade _tsks_ , sitting down in the comfortable arm chair and gesturing Peter to sit in the one opposite. Peter opts for Wade’s lap, instead, but Wade doesn’t mind at all. “I can do that and still let you top. I could ride you.”

Peter doesn’t look at him, toeing off his formal shoes, his face very red. “I want you to be inside of me.”

Wade leans forward to kiss him just behind the ear, heart thumping far too loud in his chest—he knows Peter can hear it. “Then I will be.” 

They kiss, cuddle, sip champagne. It’s beautiful. _Peter_ is beautiful. They get through almost the entire bottle before Peter makes the first move, standing up, offering a hand to Wade. Wade watches Peter sway gently with amusement. “You just drank a half a bottle of champagne, baby. Don’t you need to pee?”

Peter’s cheeks get pinker. “Don’t you?”

“Yup! And as far as I’m aware, that isn’t a kink for either one of us. So go. Unless you want me to go first?”

Peter nods, busily not looking at Wade as he pours the last of the champagne into his flute. “Y-yeah. Go first.”

...

Wade is standing near the bed when Peter comes back from the restroom. He looks really striking in this light, Peter thinks. It complements the contours of his face, brings out the brightness of his eyes—grey like mountains in cold sunrise, grey like smooth pebbles in a stream. They look at each other for a moment, neither in a hurry, eyes appreciative, hungry. Peter watches Wade pop the buttons on the cuffs of his shirt sleeve, loosen his tie, start unbuttoning his shirt. Peter doesn’t realize he’s also undressing until Wade’s eyes take on a sharp gleam of explicit lust and he bares his teeth at Peter in a strange, aggressive smile.

Peter snorts. “You’re fucking crazy.”

Wade’s grin widens. “You have no idea, baby boy.”

Peter thinks he probably does, thinks that if Wade could hear what he talks about when Peter sucks him off, he would know that Peter knows. He also thinks, _if you’re crazy, I’m ready to be crazy with you_ , and Wade must see that on his face because he steps forward, shirt falling off his broad shoulders to the ground, and takes Peter’s face in both hands. They kiss as Peter shrugs off the shirt, their bare chests pushing together. Peter lets his hands explore the terrain of Wade’s back, feeling the hard, immortal yet vulnerable structure of muscle and bone. Peter can feel and hear Wade’s accelerated heartbeat, his controlled breathing, the sweet, almost imperceptible little noises originating in his throat that say _mine_ and _want_ and _love._

Wade lifts him as though he weighs nothing. It’s a gorgeous feeling—it makes Peter feel safe and protected, even knowing he could lift Wade just as easily. Wade lays him out on the bed but doesn’t join him right away, instead straightening up, his hooded grey eyes burning into Peter’s as he methodically undoes his belt and pulls it from the loops. In the base of his spine, Peter’s spidey-senses vaguely register this as a possible threat, as though they, too, are unsure if Wade is tamed. 

Peter bites his lip, flushing with desire as he watches Wade’s pants slide down his muscular thighs, leaving him in an absolutely ridiculous pair of skin-tight and blood-red silk boxers, every detail of his erection visible through the thin fabric, even some of the more defined veins running through it. “You look like a porn star,” Peter teases, voice a little raw, eyes raking up and down Wade’s imposing form.

Wade gives him a dark, unreadable look. “Baby, when I’m with you, I _feel_ like a porn star.”

Peter simultaneously thinks this is very funny and knows that Wade isn’t joking, so he only raises his eyebrows at Wade, fighting his smile, and gestures to the bed, spreading his legs invitingly. “You coming?”

“Not as much as you will be,” Wade retorts instantly—and in the next moment, the man’s weight is pressed down into him and his lips are nothing less than captured, his legs forced apart to accommodate Wade's insistent hips.

They kiss and move against each other until Peter is panting, bright red in the face, the way he knows Wade likes to see him. Wade pulls away as though by invisible ropes, his muscles straining with desire to stay pressed tight to Peter’s body. It’s hot. Peter vaguely wonders when or _if_ he will finally be ready for Wade uncontrolled. Then the scarred hands are at his belt, his button, his zipper, tugging his slacks down along with his boxers, smoothly revealing all of Peter’s skin at once. 

Well, almost. Peter plants his foot on Wade’s chest, smirking at him, preventing him from leaning back between Peter’s legs. “Socks too, Wade, I look stupid in just my socks.”

Wade’s eyes never leave Peter’s as his huge, shockingly graceful hands—hands Peter knows have been used to kill and maim, hands that wield knives the an artist wields a paintbrush, hands that can dissemble and reassemble a Barrera M9 in less than a minute in complete darkness—encircle Peter’s ankle, pull his sock off, cup his foot, dig their thumbs pleasantly into the sole. Peter is transfixed by the sight as Wade kisses the pad of his big toe, never breaking eye contact. The message is clear. _Anything you ask for is yours._

Wade’s hands find Peter’s hips and push a little. Peter, still a little stunned by the display of affection, follows his unspoken instruction to offer him his other foot. Then Peter really is naked. 

“Your feet are cold,” Wade says, pushing them against his fever-warm chest and covering them with his hands.

“... it’s cold outside.”

“It’s because you’re too skinny. I read that if your feet are cold, you’re less likely to reach orgasm during sex.”

Peter giggles. “Pretty sure that study referred to women, not men.”

Wade considers this, his hands rubbing across Peter’s skin from arch to thigh, leaving goosebumps and making Peter squirm pleasantly. “I don’t want to take any chances,” Wade concludes eventually, then grabs Peter’s ankles and presses them wide apart. Peter flushes, fighting the urge to cover himself as Wade’s gaze fixes on everything between his legs. Then he’s kissing up Peter’s leg, the sensation electric, hot, just ever-so-slightly ticklish, and Peter’s legs are falling farther apart, his eyes falling shut as his breath comes in gasps and moans.

Warm, hot, and _wet_. Wade, shameless, worshipful Wade, licking a hot trail over Peter’s hole, across his perineum, over the seam of his balls. “Fuck,” Peter whimpers, feeling the tongue return to and focus on his entrance. Wade’s tongue pushes against him, into him, his face pushes deep into the crevice of his ass, his hands push his thighs flat against his stomach. It feels like sin, like danger, filthy, but at the same time, Peter feels he knows what it would be like to be a prince whose servant licks his boots. 

Peter shudders, gasping, trying to reach for Wade’s head but not able to think clearly enough to unstick his hands from the sheets. He compromises by pushing with his ankles instead, pulling Wade in as much as he pushes into him. Peter feels a finger push in beside the tongue and wails his pleasure, the rising tide of his emotions. “Wade—Wade—Wade, hold on, if you keep going—”

They’d learned the hard way during an intense session of practice-stretching that Peter tightened like a vice when he came and would take a very long time to relax post-orgasm. Accordingly, with a groan of disappointment vocalized directly into Peter, making him jerk his hips, Wade pulls back into a kneeling position between Peter’s legs. After that, it’s just routine enough that Peter’s anxiety can filter in through the barrage of sensation and oxytocin. 

Peter is spread open, skewered on three of Wade’s thick fingers massaging him open, pinned by Wade’s smoldering gaze, his weight, his fingers. Like a mounted butterfly in a display case. Or more like a spider, he guesses. It hurts—stings. Wade is petting his hair and mumbling comforting words to him, telling him he’s doing so, so well. Peter watches with wide eyes as Wade applies more lube to his fingers, pushing into Peter and swiping at his walls to make him slick enough. Then more lube again, Wade’s eyes shuttering for a moment as he strokes it onto his swollen member. 

The images and sensations, for a moment, come in disjointed flashes. Peter is inhaling as Wade lines up his cock with Peter’s entrance. Peter is inhaling as Wade peppers his face with kisses. Peter is inhaling as Wade’s cock pushes against him, feeling as impossible to take in as a wall. Peter is inhaling as he digs his nails into Wade’s shoulders. Peter is choking on all the air he’s taken in and been unable to expel, having forgotten how to empty his lungs, as the head of Wade’s cock pops into him all at once. 

When Peter is fully aware of linear time again, his teeth are buried in Wade’s shoulder and he can taste a hint of blood. He pulls away, realizing he’s curled into Wade’s body, and lies back on the mattress, panting for air, feeling positively impaled. He watches the tiny break in Wade’s shoulder from one of his canines heal over in seconds. “Sorry,” he bites out, curt, squeezing his eyes shut and throwing his head back. He neither sounds nor feels sorry.

Wade’s whole body is shaking on top of him, but he is very, very still. His voice is tight and pained. “S’okay. Hurt?”

“ _Yes it hurts_ ,” Peter hisses. It does. It burns, but it’s sharp, localized, like being branded. 

"Wanna stop?”

Peter shakes his head violently, counting to ten for each inhale and exhale, forcing himself to relax a smidgen more each time. The pain fades fairly quickly, disappearing into a dull ache. Manageable. He imagines that his ass is at exactly maximum capacity to stretch; if Wade has been even slightly bigger, he couldn't have taken it. At long last, Peter peaks one eye open to look at Wade. The man’s scarred face looks like a battle ground, tenderness and aggression, love and lust at odds with each other in the set of his jaw and the glint of his eyes. Peter tries for a smile. “Is it... is it all the way in?”

To his surprise, Wade barks out a laugh, the sound rough and sudden. “God, baby boy. No. Not even close. Just the head.”

Peter tilts his head back, defeated by his own hubris, boneless in the face of what mountain there is left to climb. “Get it in before I change my mind, then.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“We can still stop if you want to-” 

“Wade I will _rip it off_ if you don’t _get on with it_.”

Thankfully, the threat kicks Wade into action. Peter is soundless, so overwhelmed by the sensation of being filled, filled, filled, the intrusion slow and neverending, that he cannot breathe enough to make a sound, cannot control his muscles enough to do anything other than tense everything in his body against the feeling. With Wade’s fingers, it had been a matter of _hitting_ his prostate, but with his cock, it's a slow drag of scar-textured heat and hardness across his prostate, the pressure as much due to stretch as angle. 

Soon, Peter feels the intrusion stopped by something unmovable within himself. He has a wild idea that is it is pelvis. Wade feels the resistance too, stops, panting, and says, “I think it won’t go in anymore.”

Peter nods jerkily, eyes shut. “I don’t think so either. Am I close?”

“You’re perfect. Yeah. It’s almost all the way in. You did so good. You feel so good.”

Wade’s mouth is on his. Peter kisses him back, desperate for reassurance in the wake of the emotional and physical extreme of penetration, his hands digging grooves into Wade’s shoulders. He feels wetness drop onto his cheek, and opens his eyes to see Wade blinking back more tears. They part lips, and Peter carefully lifts his head to kiss at the tracks on his nose and cheeks. His voice is very, very gentle as he speaks. “Why are you crying?” 

Wade shakes his head, clearly overwhelmed. After a bit of visible struggling for words, he says in the voice of a man broken to pieces, “It’s just that you’re so beautiful.”

Peter isn’t sure how Wade had known he was ready. He’d barely formed the idea in his own head when Wade begins to pull out so, so slowly, then push back in at a tortuous, teasing pace. The thrusts are shallow and even, each movement dragging across Peter’s prostate until he sees stars. His head is thrown back, and he doesn’t even know how to characterize the sounds he’s emitting, doesn’t know how to process Wade’s lips on his face, his neck, his chest, only dimly aware of Wade’s arms crossed behind his back, his hands holding him in place by the shoulders as he fucks into him. 

Somehow he can read Wade with perfect clarity. There is devotion, love, gentleness, desire, possessive passion in every touch, every movement, every kiss. He knows with more certainty than he’s ever known anything that Wade is his. His to love, his to command, his to keep. It’s powerful. He feels powerful. He feels almost exactly as powerful in that knowledge as he feels helpless, boneless, completely vulnerable and at Wade’s mercy in his arms, surrounded and filled by him. Peter has a moment of calm in his soul in which he knows that Wade is his common denominator, the only one who can make him feel like he is everything that he is all at once. Here, in this moment, he is shy and confident, awkward and sexy, nurtured and nurturing, protected and protective. Whole.

His hands find Wade’s face, his neck, his back, and he pulls him in close, hooks his ankles behind his back, gives himself up to him. Holds onto him. Holds him. Wade kisses his forehead, his expression stormy and wild, and picks up his even pace, holding Peter so tightly that he’s lifted from the bed, his weight supported almost entirely by Wade’s arms. 

Peter doesn’t reach orgasm so much as orgasm comes for him. It builds with a burning inevitability that lets Peter know that it will _hurt_ when it comes, that there is nothing Peter can do to stop it, delay it, or rush it; it will take him just as thoroughly as Wade has. “ _Wade_ —” Peter is begging. For what? “ _Wade, Wade,_ please, _I can’t do it_ , Wade—”

Peter feels it in every part of his body, taking him over like the mutation had done, ripping through him like a scorched-earth policy invading force, like Wade will take everything he is and either use it or burn it.

...

Being inside of Peter makes him feel like the Wade Wilson that went to basic training, the Wade Wilson that Vanessa fell in love with, the Wade Wilson that was beautiful and whole. Watching Peter cum on his cock, screaming and writhing, pulsing around him, tears in his eyes and love on his lips, makes him feel like the immortal god Weapon X turned him into. Finishing inside of Peter makes him feel like those things might always have been compatible, always been worthy of love, always been worthy of Peter. 

The moment Peter’s orgasm had taken him, he’d clamped down on his cock so tightly that Wade could no longer move inside of him. Wade’s muscles ache with the desire to keep thrusting, so close to the edge himself he could sob, but Peter’s rippling, pulsing muscles, coming in waves with his orgasm, push Wade right over.

When Wade comes back online, he’s kneeling, buried inside of the trembling boy on his lap, who is held up only by the brutal embrace Wade has him in. Their torsos press together so tightly that Peter appears to be having trouble catching his breath, and Wade struggles to remember how to loosen his hold.

“Don’t... don’t move,” Peter demands, breathless, his arms tightening around Wade’s neck.

Wade’s softening cock, still trapped in Peter’s vice, twitches at the idea of staying exactly like that forever, causing Peter to jerk in his arms and whine. “Stop!” he insists. “I’m too sensitive, stop!”

Wade holds him tightly. “I can’t do anything, baby, it’s just getting soft.”

Peter makes a sound of protest at this information, brow furrowed, lips downturned. Wade catches him in a kiss and holds him there, swallowing down all the sounds of discomfort and sleepy anger until Wade falls away from inside him, eliciting a sound of pain and loss from Peter that fills his heart faster than it can break. Then Wade lowers him onto his back again, mindful of his sore spots, and lays down next to him, pulling him close and breathing in his smell, drowning in his half-shut eyes.

He strokes his baby boy’s face. “Was it good?” 

“Yeah.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Only a little bit.”

“Did you like it?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think you want to do it again?”

“Definitely.”

“Can—”

“Wade, shh.”

They lay together for a while, quiet, and Wade watches Peter flirt with sleep. But he can’t help himself. “Baby boy, do you love me?”

He nods, not opening his eyes, and curls into Wade, resting his angelic head on his shoulder, sighing as Wade’s hand cups his hip. “Yes, I love you.”

Wade hums to himself, warm, sated, content, exactly where he wants to be. “I love you too,” he adds after a moment. “More than anything.”

Long moments pass during which Wade’s eyes become heavy as well. Peter falls in and out of sleep, shifting when he drifts closer to full consciousness. He makes a noise into Wade’s chest. 

“What is it, baby boy?”

“Can you see my phone from where you are, Wade?” Peter doesn’t lift his head to look himself.

“Yeah. I can reach it from here. Do you need it?”

Peter shakes his head minutely. “No. But. Can you do me a favor?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“Text Captain Rogers ‘Mission accomplished.’” 

Wade snorts, shifting as little as possible so as not to disturb Peter as he reaches for the device. “He was worried,” Peter explains, his voice becoming more vague with sleep again.

_Eventually_ , Wade thinks, _eventually, the Avengers will know that Peter is always safe in my arms._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is just about it. Next chapter is the epilogue, which I already have written. Thank you so much to everyone who has been following the story, commenting, leaving kudos, I appreciate you so much. 
> 
> I’m going to leave it marked incomplete with the epilogue unposted until I can go through and edit everything. So expect the final update in about a week. Some details might change, and little bits might be added or taken out. No major changes. As for future writing, I’m playing around with two novella-length ideas, and I think I’ll put together some one shots of things that I wanted to happen during the course of this story but that didn’t fit very neatly.


	19. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if you don't know/aren't into science, a man named Jiankui in China announced a while back that he successfully used the CRISPR-Cas gene editing system to create the world's first genetically modified live babies--twins who are allegedly less likely to contract HIV because of the editing. GWAS stands for genome-wide association study. Just wanted to let you know that none of that first bit was pulled wholesale from my ass.

“CRISPR-Cas,” Mr. Stark says as soon as Peter has the door open, letting a blast of cold air into the heated backseat of the black SUV.

“CRISPR-Cas,” Peter agrees instantly, adding, “Do you believe Jiankui really made a viable GMO baby?”

Within 60 seconds, they’ve assured each other that they are working with the same knowledge base and the same sort of exceedingly cautious optimism. “But of course, mutants.” Peter’s voice is concerned, matching the worry in Mr. Stark’s eyes. 

Mr. Stark nods gravely. “I think it’s time we start trying to get ahead of the potential for designer mutant babies. So, congratulations, Peter, you’ve been officially accepted as a research assistant on the world’s first ever super-GWAS team.”

Peter’s mouth drops open a little in surprise. “But, Mr. Stark, surely the chances of there evening being consensus sequences that could be targeted in the first place is so low—”

“Unless you buy into the transposon theory that the mutations all originate in one location and edit other genes at random through jumps,” Mr. Stark finishes. “Regardless, if it’s possible, it’s our responsibility to know first. You’re going with some of my senior genetics researchers to China to learn straight from Dr. Jiankui for a week or so. Then you’ll come back here to get started on sequencing the Avengers, the X-Men, and Xavier’s students and alumni. Romanov, Clint, Bruce, and Steve are all making PR runs to appropriate countries and regions to try to get more mutants and mutates to volunteer for sequencing. But you know how you all are.” 

Peter grins. “Secretive, paranoid, and prone to violence? Sounds like you, Mr. Stark.”

The older man rolls his eyes, amused with Peter. “How have things been? You ready to start back at the lab for the spring semester tomorrow?”

In truth, Peter has never felt more ready for anything. He’s even excited about the online economics course through Duke University that Mr. Stark signed him up for. “Yeah, things are great, Mr. Stark. How are you?” Realizing his rudeness, he turns to Happy, who’s been driving them in silence while they talked over each other about gene editing in the back of the car. “And how are you, Happy? Again, I’m so sorry I called you Happy Peter.”

Happy waves him off. “Doing good, kid. It’s good to see you alert and yourself again.”

Peter turns expectant eyes on Mr. Stark, trying to hide a smile behind his hand as he adjusts his sunglasses. Peter notices anyway. “Things are good on my end, Peter,” he assures the boy.

Happy chimes in. “He’s finally sleeping again now that you’ve back to normal for a while.”

Mr. Stark coughs and Peter laughs a little, giving the man a friendly punch to the arm. “Probably would have been more rewarding to have one of your own than to adopt me already almost an adult,” he teases.

The older man smirks. “You’d think,” he says cryptically. “We’re almost here.”

“Here” turns out to be a cemetery about twenty minutes outside city limits. For a wild moment, Peter wonders if Mr. Stark is taking him to see his parents’ graves, but quickly dismisses the thought. They aren’t that close. Yet. Peter would break him down eventually. It’s a cold early-January day, and the three of them walk in companionable, respectful silence down the rows of headstones, each bundled against the frozen air, their footsteps crunching in the thin, wet layer of snow that still cling to the ground in the shade. 

To Peter’s surprise, they stop before a pair of granite headstones with somewhat familiar names on them. One says _Dr. Gregory Danvers, 1970-2018, Beloved teacher, father, and friend._ The other says _Daniel Danvers, 1995-2016, Yours is the light by which my spirit’s born: you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars._ Peter isn't sure how to feel as he reads both inscriptions over and over again. 

After a moment of silence, Mr. Stark speaks. “I already know that you won’t make the number and kind of mistakes that I’ve made, Peter.” His voice is quiet. “Mostly because you’re a better man than I was when I was your age, probably a better man than I am now. But you _will_ make mistakes.”

Happy steps forward and nudges Mr. Stark, handing him a bouquet of white roses Peter had been too busy burying his nose into his scarf to notice before. The older man thanks Happy and bends down to put the bouquet on Daniel’s snow-dusted grave. 

“Do you think I’m a bad man, Peter?”

Peter doesn’t have to think. “Of course not, Mr. Stark. None of this was on purpose, it’s not your fault. You’re a great—”

Mr. Stark cuts him off, finally looking right at Peter. “I blame myself for this. I think this makes me less of a good man. Remember that, when you make a mistake that makes you feel like a bad person.”

They look at each other for a long moment, and Peter thinks he understands. Mr. Stark doesn’t want him to blame himself for any future mistakes, and is equating that directly to his opinion that Mr. Stark should be forgiven. Peter can not believe that Mr. Stark is worthy of forgiveness while he himself is not, or vice-versa. As Mr. Stark probably knew, Peter is too smart to engage in that kind of cognitive dissonance. 

Peter turns his gaze back to the headstones. “I understand,” he says quietly.  Mr. Stark nods once to show recognition of his words.

“You’re my penance,” Mr. Stark says suddenly.

“... What?”

Mr. Stark puts an arm around his shoulders, directing him back out of the cemetery as Happy trails behind. “You are so good, Peter. I intend to give you the world, because I know you can take care of it. I believe that if I train you, support you, give you the best of everything, I can finally make peace with the evil I put into the world. You are my penance.”

Peter thinks about that for a few moments as they walk. Mr. Stark lets go of him as they reach the car and Happy pulls the back door open for them. They get in, and Happy starts the engine. “You... really aren’t joking. About me being your... heir.”

Mr. Stark rolls his eyes. “It only took you like, what, five years of me supporting you as Spider-Man and a year and a half of formally educating you in a university that literally only exists to train you to take over from me? Do you finally get it now?”

Peter swallows, hard. He thinks about how much he loves his research. How much he loves Mr. Stark. All the ways he could support his Aunt. Everything he could give to Wade, perhaps starting with the finest therapists in the country. But most of all, he thinks of everything he could do for the world. “I... I could never be Tony Stark,” he says, looking sideways at his mentor, trying to communicate his doubt, his inadequacy.

Mr. Stark takes off his sunglasses, staring hard at Peter. “I’m not asking you to be. I’m asking you to be better.”

There is a beat of silence.

“So, about Wilson.”

They look at each other, apprehensive. Peter wonders whether Mr. Stark would be willing to leverage his education against him to make him break it off with Wade. The mere thought tears him to pieces, especially knowing that he knows what his decision would have to be. Wade would never let him choose anything else. 

Mr. Stark looks down at his sunglasses, uncomfortable. “He’s not good enough for you. But, then, every time I think that, the more logical side of my brain says, _then who is?_  And honestly, Pete, I don’t know. I can’t conceive of someone who is good enough for you. Of course, I’m certainly biased in thinking that. But the point remains. So, Peter, instead of encouraging you to break it off... I would like to encourage you to make him be good enough for you.” 

Peter is open-mouthed, staring at Mr. Stark, who isn’t looking back at him. “You bring out the best in people, Pete. I can already see that Wilson has changed because you’re in his life. I’ve changed because you’re in mine. Happy, a couple of years ago, could you have imagined me having a heart-to-heart as the father figure of a kid from Queens?” Happy obediently shakes his head no. Mr. Stark’s facial expression plainly says that he believes that this is proof enough of his point. He must see some of the confusion on Peter’s face, though, because he explains further, “Look, Peter, the nonsense about not changing for someone you love, not trying to change the person you’re with... it’s bullshit. People need to change. People should surround themselves with those that want to see them change for the better, always. That’s why I need people like Pepper, like Happy, like Steve, like Rhodey... Like you. If you think Wilson brings out the best in you, then you should bring out the best in him.”

“And you... you think that Wade can be good enough for me? In your own opinion?”

Mr. Stark shrugs. “I can tell you that I wasn’t good enough for Pepper by a mile when I met her, and she knew that. Now she thinks that I am. Maybe she’s right, or maybe she’s wrong and I’m just lucky. Either way, I’m a better man for it.”

Peter thinks of Wade. The way he looks guarded and stiff in public, the way he hides in hideous, over-sized, unseasonal clothing, the way he flinches when strangers speak to him, the way he resorts to violence first and reason later. And he thinks of Wade warm, relaxed, with Cricket in his arms, wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose as he reads that month’s NatGeo. He thinks of Wade showing Aunt May how to make the pie crust she’d loved so much when Wade brought her his homemade blueberry pie. He thinks of Wade talking animatedly to a sniffling, lost little girl in his arms about her favorite ponies, making her giggle wetly, while Peter searches for her grandmother. He thinks about the way Wade looks at him, like he is a prophet, a savior, a healer, precious. 

Peter smiles at his mentor. “If you think I can run Stark Industries, I think I can turn Wade Wilson into an upstanding citizen.”

Mr. stark looks sort of proud, but still exasperated. “If anyone could, it’s you, Pete.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw!! Yay. :) All done. I chose this ending because I feel like the last chapter effectively wrapped up the emotional state of the two main characters. All that was left was making sure Peter has things straight with his father figure and his future. Thank you so, so much for reading this. I loved writing it. Please review or PM me if you have thoughts or feelings you'd like to share--I absolutely love the attention, as do most of us, and I appreciate the words you write and the time you take to write them.
> 
> To be clear for any young readers, changing things that you like about yourself--like going out and spending time with your friends, or doing art, or listening to certain kinds of music--for a romantic partner is NOT okay. Expecting someone who doesn't want to change or doesn't try to change to be better is unhealthy. But ideally, you and your partner should always try to improve yourselves and each other. For example, my boyfriend is teaching me to admit it when I'm wrong and I'm teaching him to use his damn turn signals and stop texting and driving. 
> 
> To be honest, I don't really approve of the whole "Deadpool is violent and inappropriate and crazy and its *true love* because Peter lets him act however he wants and he can be himself" trope. Or when people write damaged characters who are just damaged together without ever growing and then call them soulmates. 
> 
> Love changes you, and if you love the right people, it should change you for the better.


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